


Roulette

by dayneschiele



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol, Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Fluff, Guns, Happy Ending, Kidnapping, M/M, Maybe eventual smut?, Rating subject to change, Recovery, Slow Burn, Withdrawal, addict!Yuuri, maybe some implied chris/phichit if you squint, viktor is the leader of a drug cartel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:11:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayneschiele/pseuds/dayneschiele
Summary: “Are you going to kill me?” Came the younger man’s second question, voice breaking even as he fought to keep it steady because of course he was going to kill him. Normally he wasn't one to open his mouth so easily, but he was fairly certain he was unraveling.He didn’t answer. Instead, he made a demand of his own. “Yuuri, tell me why I’m here.”





	1. Privet, Dasvidaniya

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, so there will be violence, drugs, alcohol, addiction, and withdrawal all wrapped up in this dark, slowly burning trash pile. I can’t refuse a good angsty fic, and I’ve completely worn out my usual go-to's for dark fics with other ships in other fandoms. I’m here to supply the side of life that no one wanted or asked for in fic land—drugs and alcohol. I’m sorry for writing this fic into existence. YOI is too pure and does not deserve this.
> 
> Very important!!!: I am not condoning, romanticizing, or suggesting the use/abuse of drugs and alcohol. This is a recovery fic for a REASON, but this is also supposed to be insightful into the reality of struggling with addiction and the mindset that is present. Please understand.
> 
> Of course, every chapter will have little warnings up here in the notes to tell you exactly what sensitive topics to look out for, just in case you want to read this fic but would like to nix certain things like violence (which should be in the minority, I'm not even 100% certain violence will be worked into this fic).
> 
> Chapter warning: Depictions of drug use, withdrawal, poor mental health, anxiety, and financial crisis.

120 hours. Five days. He watched each shattering _tick, tick, tick_ of the clock hand as the seconds passed, and the exact time he had swallowed that last drop of cheap vodka came and went. _Five days_. He read somewhere that the symptoms were their worst on the fifth day—or maybe that was something else. He wasn’t really sure anymore, not when his hands were shaking so violently that he was convinced his bones were rattling within his flesh—not when his heart was actively trying to break free from the cage of his ribs. Not when his flesh was just numb enough to make itself prevalent.

He hadn’t moved his legs in hours. He wasn’t able to decide between sitting on the couch and watching the space on the wall where his TV used to be, and sitting in his room where the dresser was pressed against the window, reminding him of the fact that he may never sleep again. Or, he may sleep forever. Entertaining the thought of either extreme might have sent him spiraling into a panic if the static wasn't permeating his ears and singing along the walls of his skull. He gave up trying to decide between couch or mattress halfway through and just sat in the hallway instead. His feet were probably numb now that his knees had been huddled to his chest for such a length of time. Bleeding vats of citrine scrolled back up to the clock. _Tick, tick, tick_.

Didn’t he have something to do today? Ah, yes. Work. He squinted, vision refocusing as he reconfigured the time—only a minute past the five-day mark—and compared it to his schedule. His shift started in an hour. Maybe he should get up and get ready. Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should sit here until the landlord comes to scoop up the ashes of his carcass; he will no doubt erupt into a fiery blaze. He entertained the thought of _just sitting there_ , of giving up entirely, but something in the back of his mind—the personality he once had, he suspected—was urging him to stand up. He couldn’t argue with himself. Not anymore, at least. Not when he couldn't remember which side of the argument to take.

Resolved to take a swing at the day, he unclasped his arms from around his legs and made a blind attempt to stand up, almost falling directly back down onto the floor thanks to the weakness in his legs. His hands splayed out onto the wall in front of him before he had the chance to kiss the ground, legs shaking as he slowly stood to his full height. As expected, his knees were burning from being held in the same position for so long. After enough time to adjust, he managed to make his way to the bathroom without incident with still-burning feet.

The streak-ridden mirror above the sink was used for damage control. He showered yesterday before lying restlessly in his bed for an indeterminate number of hours, so his hair still looked fine. Shaky fingers combed easily through soft ebony strands, letting it fall into its natural pattern without complaint. His eyes looked tired, dark circles accentuating the fact that his skin was a shade or so paler than normal. He hadn’t gotten a good night’s rest in god knows when, and he didn’t eat yesterday. Normally his glasses would hide some of his exhaustion, giving others something else to look at besides the lifelessness of his gaze, but he couldn’t easily wear something so personalized to himself right now. He needed to be inconspicuous, just for a little while longer. Just until he could get a second job.

He wasn't really sure if he knew who _Katsuki Yuuri_ was anymore, anyway. Or where, rather. He seemed so distant—tucked away in the layers of black silk draped at the corners of his mind. That was a good place for him to be; that place was soft, warm, shielding. Beyond those curtains, ice-dripping hellfire; contradiction, nuclear destruction in the midst of a blizzard, the most bizarre combination of burning and blistering skin being kissed by soft peels of snow. Beyond those curtains, a bloodbath he had submitted to drowning in.

He took his glasses off and placed them down next to his contact case, watching the world blur into simpler patterns of shapes and blocks of color as he languidly moved to place the lenses on his eyes. He blinked a few times to situate the offensive things, returning his gaze to the mirror. He still looked too much like himself—a tired looking version of himself with a thinner face, like he’d lost all of the life-loving roundness to his features and was left with a more prominent jawline and peeking cheekbones. He rubbed an eye with a hardly coordinated hand, all of his movements slow and deliberate so as not to disturb the delicate balance of consciousness.

With the thought in mind that he needed to look absolutely indistinguishable from other passersby, he moved on to the step of picking out his outfit. Working in a large retail store had its perks—he didn’t have a uniform which meant less trips to the laundromat, most of the time he could phase himself into the racks at the store and become more of a moving mannequin than an employee, and he was utterly forgettable in the midst of the other sales associates present. With that in mind, his managers also made it very easy for him to retain his illusion of anonymity. He was rarely ever stationed on the cash register or in the fitting rooms, seeing as the store was largely marketed towards women. They liked to have the girls run the registers and the fits, they said, and he did the opposite of complain. Instead, they usually had him recovering or putting clothes back on the floor, with the occasional stocking shift.

He thumbed through his drawers, which were still hanging open and messily spilling out on top of one another thanks to his urge to rearrange his furniture earlier in the week. The dresser happened to be the tallest thing he could find to securely barricade the window. Latent shadows followed his every move, dancing along the glass to paint their malicious promises. His fingers graced the fabric of a faded sweatshirt, one which had probably been black when he bought it but was now more of a charcoal. That would do fine with a pair of black jeans. Maybe he could dance around the shadows this way.

The burning in his stomach came from a place other than just hunger, even as he heard the acid there declare mutiny. The flame formed of anxious energy rooted in his core wasn’t one that seemed extinguishable. His eyes skimmed to locate something to further conceal his identity—the hat that Phichit accidentally left here the last time he came over. Yeah, that could work. Come to think of it, he probably had a surgical mask tucked away somewhere. He was willing to bet he could even get away with wearing the mask at work if he said he had a cold. The store was too understaffed to send him home, after all.

After finding himself presentable enough for work and much of his face tightly sealed away, he took his self-prescribed ‘ _medication_ ’ to make his head quiet. He loathed the way the razor felt absurdly cold between his fingers because it was the middle of winter and he couldn’t afford to turn the heat on. He loathed the way his hand was trained to divide white powder into perfect little lines. He loathed the way his body stopped shaking so violently once the straw was in his grip and he was _leaning, leaning, leaning_ with a finger pressing his nose partially closed. He loathed the taste of it dripping down his throat and he loathed the way he sighed, head tipping back as he waited for the energy to fill his lifeless carcass.

Nevertheless, he put the baggy in his pocket along with a tiny metal scoop.

* * *

 

Work had gone smoothly. As he suspected, the manager on duty, Celestino, couldn’t care less about whether or not he wore the mask, and Phichit’s hat was already considered an acceptable part of the dress code. He couldn’t help the way his anxiety flared every time the sliding glass doors opened, or the way he would discreetly scan every face that entered for signs of danger. He couldn’t help the way he avoided conversations with his coworkers—who had teasingly asked him if he had become a vigilante—and went about his duties as monotonously as possible. He couldn’t help the amount of times he slipped into the back room and seized one of the bathrooms in order to _bump_ his mood.

Unfortunately, the only way to distract himself from the loss of one poison—and consequently the effects that followed—was to increase the use of another. That was all fine and well, except he was rapidly running out of ‘another’ before he even had the chance to pay off a single penny of it. That’s how this mess started in the first place—this isolated mess, that is. That was the reason he was so far removed from whoever this 'Katsuki Yuuri' was that everyone kept calling him. The larger mess was a different story, naturally.

The store stayed pretty busy throughout the night, which left him getting out later than scheduled. It was a large building, and the fixtures were packed so tightly with clothing that some of the hangers were bulging out and threatening to jump ship to the floor, so cleaning it took a while. Especially when the customers seemed to turn into complete barbarians upon entry and decided to leave clothes strewn all over the floor along with spilled drinks and evidence of _unspeakable_ acts. Normally, it would have bothered him. Normally, he would have been itching to leave just so he could go home and pour himself a drink. Normally, he would have been quite irritable and impatient rather than suffering from paranoia with the intermittent lapse of blurred consciousness. Now, with his personal bar dried up and his fate hanging by a frayed thread, he was perfectly content to stay away from his mouse trap for as long as possible.

Winter’s breath graced the bare flesh of his face, reminding him again that the warmth was gone from his quaint apartment in more ways than one. With feet slowly falling in the direction of home, only guided by street lights and the occasional passing car, he contemplated turning around and walking until he couldn’t hear threats in the wind. He had his paycheck in his back pocket, even though it was too late to cash it right now. He could take that money and run; leave his life, and his lease, and his dues behind. He could buy a tent and camp somewhere until his peaceful conclusion, on his own terms. Or, he could start over somewhere that they couldn't find him. Yet, his feet were still carrying him home.

The sharp pain in his stomach reminded him that he still hadn’t eaten, and wouldn't eat until he cashed that check. That was the second day in a row. It was also a reminder that he was coming down from his high. He never felt like eating when he used. He didn't care to know why. It was a good balance, since the alcohol never failed to make him hungry. The ups seemed to get shorter every time, and he couldn’t very well ‘medicate’ himself just to walk home. He needed to be sparing with what he had left, because it wasn’t much. Wasn't enough. It's never enough.

All too quickly, he was home, staring at the fresh white paint on his door. Its purity was ironic, but the implications of cold and unfeeling alabaster—that was simply mocking. He took a moment to contemplate whether or not he really should take his chances with wandering into the night. What was left here for him anymore? Misery, struggle, impending hospitalization or, more likely, an improper grave? Maybe he should admit to committing a crime, lose his visa, and have himself deported; it was probably better than death, and there was no way he could afford a plane ticket home right now. Now _that_ , that was a thought. That was a thought he was only allowing himself to humor because somewhere deep down, he knew that he was just being flighty and irrational. Probably. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he was right. Oh, _god_.

As if his mind itself was a yo-yo, his thoughts snapped harshly in the opposite direction.

Then again, what would Phichit think if he just left like that? It would absolutely crush him. The mere idea of his best friend, and quite frankly the only person in Detroit he could stand to be around consistently, finding out that he’d just walked out of his life or intentionally did something as stupid and dangerous as get himself deported was almost enough to make him vomit. God, what a lousy friend he must be to even think of something like that.

He heaved a sigh, abandoning thoughts of wandering away from his life until his feet bled or confessing his sins at the police station as he raked bitten nails across his head through his friend's hat in frustration. He noticed now that his mouth was uncomfortably dry, a taste similar to chewed aspirin still faintly hanging on his tongue from the last bump. A better source of discomfort lay in the fact that he could never leave, even if he had never met Phichit. He was too scared—he was always too scared, even when the alternative was equally as fear inspiring, if not more than.

Inhale. Exhale. He fumbled to unlock the door before slowly sliding it open. He ventured inside once he accounted for the empty couch, closing the door behind him as quietly as possible before slipping out of his shoes. The surgical mask had been rubbing his ears raw for some time at that point, so he decided to take it off and hang it on the hook along with his keys. Sock-muffled steps rounded the corner to the dining room—where his breath died abruptly in his lungs and his heart forgot a full beat.

No.

“Katsuki Yuuri.” His name, delicately accented, poured like wine from the mouth of a modern god—all glinting silver, and dripping sapphires, and features composed of porcelain, and worst of all, all _too close_.

His eyes widened, mouth falling open as a strangled gasp escaped from his throat. His reaction was instantaneous; his steps reversed clumsily as he made a valiant attempt to escape, stumbling and tripping over himself as his breaths came in labored vocalizations of panic. There wasn’t time to think—he told himself he wouldn’t when it inevitably came to this—and so he relied purely on instinct to escape this cruelly beautiful harbinger of death.

He should never have come home. Oh _fuck_ , he should **never** have come home.

Fingers had unfortunately curled into the loose fabric of his sweatshirt the moment before his feet had begun their dance, effectively causing him to lose what little balance he had left. His clothed feet slid along the wooden floor as his collar strained against the back of his neck, and he could hear the sound of tiny seams tearing. His knees tried to buckle, but the fist in his clothing pulled him up to stand gracelessly on his feet and much, _much_ too close to the face of handsome man carved from marble who had definitely come to kill him. Warm breath against his mouth was the only thing assuring him that this creature, who looked absolutely divine in the low glow of the apartment, was actually a living being and not a horrifically murderous sculpture come to life.

There could only have been a second's lapse between his capture and his release—if one could call it release. It happened so quickly that his mind hadn't even properly adjusted to wrap itself wholly around the fact that his worst nightmare had become a reality. His mind had, however, managed to dissolve the most striking components of the scenario and sort them into two parts: one, there was an unfairly handsome villain who had broken into his home and man-handled him, and two, said villain was probably going to wrap his pretty fingers around his neck and steal the last miserable moments of his life.

Nevertheless, the glimmer of hesitation in that second's lapse had evaporated and he was tugged adjacent to the man without ceremony. He was shoved into one of the cheap wooden chairs at his dining table, the force of which almost causing him to topple over, and honestly, he was surprised the damn thing didn’t fall apart. His breathing only served to become more haggard, his vision beginning to blur as he recognized the all too familiar onset of a panic attack.

This can't be happening. This can't be happening. This can't be happening.

 _I don't want to die_.

A hand reflexively met his face, attempting to muffle the sound of his hyperventilation before it could melt into tearless sobs. Pots of honey-kissed citrine were open wide, searching the room for anything even remotely resembling an escape. He could feel the song in his blood; he could feel the electricity burning through his bones that was begging, pleading for him to get up and _run_. His lungs filled with smoke born of the cold fire rooted in the pit of his stomach and he was half coughing, half gasping when his own muscles acted without his command and lifted him from the chair.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” His voice was rich, seeping through perfect teeth and halting the birth of the other’s progress completely with its marmalade consistency. There was no emotion to it; no warning, no amusement, no authority… Just a suggestion.

And yet the sound of it made Yuuri feel like the bucket had been kicked from beneath his feet. He choked on his own panic, the melody in his veins reaching higher and faster notes. The warmth of saline slipping from his lower lids sliced through the chill in the room, almost mocking in its reassurance that this was real, and that he was still alive, and that he had yet to experience a _damn thing_. The realization that this was, indeed, reality was ironically disorienting.

Did the man have a gun? _Of course_ , he had to have a gun. He couldn't be this confident, hands moving at their own leisurely pace even as the other had chosen to rise from his chair in some form of confrontation (the details of which he was still trying to put together), if he _didn’t_ have a gun. His heart continued in its venture to crack his ribs, chipping away with each unrelenting beat. The sound of it filled his ears, pulsing and dizzying. Adrenaline grew like vines through the pores of his skin, each new birth scrawling messages into his flesh; _run, move, escape_. He opted instead to shake, legs finally giving and placing him back in the chair.

Blank.

He had been watching the man without absorbing what any of his actions meant, vaguely recognizing that something else had his attention at the moment and that’s why he hadn’t made any attempts to shatter his kneecaps or break his teeth. When lithe fingers gently slid a glass across the table, the smell of alcohol was enough to break through his panic and send his gaze refocusing to the offering. His eyes flitted quickly between the glass and the man, who was staring at him expectantly.

“You should drink, it will calm your nerves.” The faint breath of something soft cradling his tongue was lost completely on the other, whose chaotic mess of a mind was now fixated entirely on the amber liquid still pinched between blown glass fingers.

Yuuri was tentative in removing the hand from his face, using the back of his palm to wipe the excess saliva from his mouth and onto his jeans. He was trembling as he took the glass in two hands, somewhat out of exposure to an ungodly amount of stress but mostly because he couldn’t think of anything he needed more _right now_ than this drink. He would’ve given up a lung for this, if the man had so much as asked. He didn’t seem to notice that the other party present was quietly assessing his desperation while he lifted the glass to his lips and greedily downed its contents in one go. He missed the quirked brow as he waited for the last drops to fall onto his tongue, awful taste be damned. A scorching trail carved itself down his throat and into his empty stomach, which was surely going to protest against scotch being its only contents in due time.

There came a low whistle as he shakily placed the empty glass on the table, slowly bringing his attention back to the one who’d offered it to him in the first place. Though his breaths were still summoned in halves and his thoughts remained a circle of Hell in their own right, he was almost embarrassingly calm in comparison to his demeanor prior to the drink, and he vaguely registered how the beverage managed to halt the melting of his sanity. Addiction was a funny thing, except it wasn't—especially when his dependence actually served to do him a favor. The man, an Adonis in his own right, was holding his own drink close to his mouth. Yuuri swallowed at the sight of it, subconsciously wetting his lips.

“How long has it been?”

“What?” Yuuri rasped, his voice hoarse from the recent mistreatment. His gaze meandered back up to meet polished turquoise.

“Since you’ve had a drink, how long has it been?” The man repeated, nothing but curiosity woven into his voice.

Hesitantly, he responded, “Five—Five days.”

The other hummed, contemplative as he sipped at the drink settled in his palm. He was leaning against the dining room table, seeming completely at home despite the fact that he’d broken into Yuuri’s house. The younger of the pair wondered if the man naturally oozed confidence, or if he was simply being viewed as that harmless. “Any seizures?” Yuuri shook his head ‘no’. “Hallucinations?” Another ‘no’, this one much more hesitant as if he wasn't entirely confident in his answer. “Hm, consider yourself lucky, then.”

“What are you doing?” Yuuri demanded, sudden outburst catching no one but himself off guard. The last thing he wanted to do was provoke this man, so why on Earth was he shouting at him? Anxiety bled through his chest.

“Talking.” His reply came easily, and he took another swig of his drink before eyeing the bottle on the table. With a sigh that could easily be misconstrued as sympathetic (which was absurd, because this man was _definitely_ here to kill him), he poured the other another glass. “Don’t inhale that one, _sip it_.” That enigmatic voice was firm for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, prompting Yuuri to nod obediently and gently cradle the glass like it was sacred. Honestly, he considered worshiping it, if only for its contents.

“Are you going to kill me?” Came the younger man’s second question, voice breaking even as he fought to keep it steady because _of course_ he was going to kill him. Normally he wasn't one to open his mouth so easily, but he was fairly certain he was unraveling.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he made a demand of his own. “Yuuri, tell me why I’m here.”

The silence between them only proved to gather gravity by the second, making Yuuri shift uncomfortably in his seat. “I owe you money.” He stated rather pathetically, wanting to chew off his own tongue. Admitting that much out loud bruised what was left of his pride.

The fact that he hadn’t eaten combined with his hiatus from drinking helped the scotch—something much fancier than Yuuri would have ever bought for himself—work its magic more quickly than it normally might’ve, and to his surprise, he could feel himself slipping into a comfortable state of tipsiness. He took another sip at his spoonful of honey once he noticed his vision lagging behind the movement of his eyes, encouraging him to keep saturating his thoughts in liquefied amber.

“Keep going,” the other urged, voice a purr that almost made Yuuri wonder if he was some sick freak that was going to get off on beating the shit out of him. That tone sounded so natural, as if it lived in his mouth. Yuuri wondered what it was like, the inside of his mouth. Was his tongue actually composed of confectionery? Did threats lurk behind his teeth? Would it taste as sweet as it would sound to lick the promise of his own death out of his mouth? "Yuuri."

“And I don’t have that money.” He managed to pass the words along an exhale as he was prompted again to elaborate. The other man sighed, bordering on dramatic. “You’re being too narrow. I want to hear the story. Why am I here, what led up to this?” His arms spread to gesture around the apartment, where it was still cold, dark, barren. _Oh_. It looked abandoned, like someone moved out and decided to leave their couch and an old dining room set because it wasn’t worth paying to move them. Empty bottles lined the kitchen counter top, and one lay broken on the floor from some meltdown Yuuri didn’t remember having. When had everything become such a blur?

More importantly, when had everything tinted blue? He was fairly certain he had just been peering through a yellow veil moments before, but now everything felt so... melancholy. That word had always sounded like the name of a color to him.

“Well, I was out, and I didn’t have the money to—“

“Go back further.” The man urged on, and Yuuri tried to force himself to stop pinpointing the exact emotion that lived in that voice every time he spoke.

“Fine.” Yuuri muttered, tone a touch more clipped than he originally intended for it to be. Well, if he wanted the entire sob story so badly, why not give it to him? Yuuri's life was quite literally in his beautifully lethal hands at this point. “Things were fine before, I guess. I had habits, expensive habits, but they were easy to pay for when someone was paying the other half of the rent.” Yuuri started, earning a nod of approval from the other in his presence.

“My roommate suddenly had to move out. He said he had issues with family in Korea that he needed to take care of." While Yuuri hadn't exactly considered his old college roommate—the one who'd been assigned to share a dorm room with him—a friend, they got along well enough on account of the fact that they were both quiet and reserved. Seung-Gil approached him as they were graduating with a proposition to share an apartment, his words being, "You're not _that_ much of a hindrance, and it would be beneficial to both of us, financially speaking, to rent an apartment together."

At the time, he didn't think much of it. Seung-Gil wasn't overly fond of anyone at all, so it made sense that he wouldn't go out of his way to look for another roommate. If it meant Yuuri didn't have to look for someone else to share a space with, he was fine with it. "He packed up and left within a day of breaking the news, and I was left to figure out how to pay for the whole month’s rent on such short notice."

Honestly, he had a feeling that his roommate sharing the information that he was leaving was one of the last things on his list before he flew out. Yuuri never asked about his share of the rent, just assuming that he probably needed that money to pay for his plane ticket back to Korea. He hadn't seen or heard from Seung-Gil since then. The man was pretty far removed from the flow of life, or so it felt. All he ever did was work and stay in his room, and Yuuri had given up trying to be his friend after a year or two of their assigned living arrangement. The most they ever talked was when Yuuri accidentally did something to inconvenience Seung-Gil or when it was time to fork over money for rent and utilities.

"So, I skipped my car payment that month with the intent to pay it later. Things got really expensive really quickly, and the only friend I have couldn’t move in to pick up the other half of the rent until the lease on his apartment was up, which is still a few months away.” He ran a hand through his hair, averting his eyes. His knee was bouncing, an outward expression of his nervous energy.

Phichit was Yuuri's best friend, and the only one he'd even remotely considered to have as a roommate after Seung-Gil vanished into thin air. He was currently splitting an apartment with Leo, his old assigned roommate, and another friend, Guang-Hong. He and Yuuri had plans to get a place together once they weren't locked into their leases, which would be up around the same time given that they'd graduated in the same year. He’d known Phichit for about as long as he’d known Seung-Gil, and in retrospect, he really wished that they would’ve talked about moving in together sooner.

“Similarly, I couldn’t get out of my lease. They told me I’d have to pay for the rest of the year up front, and I just couldn’t afford it. Months rolled by and the bank repossessed my car. That was the first time I thought I hit rock bottom." He remembered that vividly, how he'd been completely and utterly devastated about losing his only mode of transportation and taking a hit on his credit score.

He found himself seeking solace in the bottom of the bottle again that night, as he'd done so many nights before, and had gotten hopelessly smashed. His memory stopped at the second bar of the night, and he left his shirt somewhere at the third, right before he got kicked out because some stranger lifted him up to sit on the bar and spilled a couple drinks during their fervent makeout session. All he knew was that he ended up at his own apartment that night, sans shirt but otherwise intact, with a new number in his phone under the name ‘ _Chris_ ’ with a wink.

After losing his car, he told Phichit he sold it instead of bleeding out his truth. He didn’t want him to worry, and some part of him was too proud to admit that could probably benefit from a helping hand.

"After my power got turned off and I had to sell most of my belongings to turn it back on, and then I lost my job because I was either too hungover, or too depressed, or too drunk to focus, I thought that surely, surely I’d hit rock bottom then." Losing his job had been absolutely devastating, but even he couldn’t deny that he’d deserved to be fired. He just wasn’t there. Most of the time he couldn’t feel a damn thing, but when he did feel, he felt _hard_.

“But I got a job in retail and things started to look up. I thought, ‘ _Hey, maybe my luck is turning around. Maybe things will work out after all_ ’, but then I ran out of coke.” He laughed bitterly, pausing for a moment to chew on his bottom lip. The other watched him intently, expression betraying nothing as his gaze dipped to accommodate the nervous habit. He took another scorching sip of his drink as Yuuri began ringing his hands.

“So, after a while, my guy noticed I hadn’t come back for more and texted me. I told him I couldn’t afford it right then. I was drunk at the time, you know? So when he told me it was no problem, he knew I was good for it, to come pick it up and make sure I had the money by the 20th, I thought, ‘ _Why not? My luck is changing, after all. I’ll figure something out’_.”

There was something indecipherable lurking in those crystalline eyes, the shift noticeable as he spoke of the proposition he’d been extended. Yuuri found himself wishing he knew what that look meant, like those gems disguised as eyes had been shattered into rough shards. Was he angry? Of course he was angry. Yuuri knew he was in the wrong for taking it, he’d known that since the day he picked it up. Honestly, he didn’t know when he’d gotten to be so _stupid_.

Nevertheless, Yuuri continued, “So, it didn’t take long for me to realize how bad I messed up. Sometime between there and here my phone got turned off because I couldn’t pay the bill, so I knew how it looked when the 20th came and passed and my phone was disconnected.” He could probably end the story there, but at this point he’d rather overshare than be nudged along to bare his soul yet again.

“The pressure was killing me, so I drank more. I drank my bar dry, and now I’m suffering the consequences. I’m afraid to call this my rock bottom. It’s bad luck.” He took a deep breath, taking a long sip from the scotch he’d been graced with while he waited for this perfectly constructed man to smite him. “So, yeah. That’s me.”

The man was silent for a while, lost in thought judging from the way pale brows were drawn and his gaze faded into the black of Yuuri’s apartment. “You’re making my job difficult.” His comment was passed along his breath in a wisp of Russian, hardly even audible. The man ‘tsk’ed, mostly at himself. “Alright, out with it. How much?”

“What?” Yuuri asked, completely thrown by the other’s complete shift in attitude. Now he suddenly meant business, and it was beyond unsettling.

“The money. How much do you owe me?” He reiterated, gesturing at nothing with his free hand while the other tipped his glass to his lips. He finished off his drink and placed it down roughly, making a sound of disgust at the undoubtedly awful taste.

“Uh—Five-hundred.” Yuuri offered, his mouth suddenly dry again as the impatience in the other’s words embraced the flame at his core like lighter fluid.

“Grand?” The man attempted to clarify, arching a brow as if to calmly say, ‘ _How in the fuck_?’

The other sputtered, eyes widening as he all but yelled, “No! No, no— _no_. Jesus, _God_. Five hundred _dollars_.”

He blinked. He blinked again. And then he blinked again. His scrutiny washed over Yuuri’s—now petrified—face, only to find that he was being absolutely genuine. “ _Chert voz'mi_.” There was a sigh and a hand running through silver strands which allowed for his frustration to be expressed without bangs as a hindrance. “And I’m supposed to, what? Kick your ass over _five-hundred dollars_?” He scoffed, throwing his hands up.

“Um?” If Yuuri had been confused before, he wasn’t at all sure of what to make of this now.

“No, no—we’re not doing this.” He declared, sitting up from the table.

Yuuri flinched, throwing his hands over his face at the movement while one leg rose to shield his midsection. A yelp escaped his lips when he felt a calloused hand wrap around his forearm, yanking outward so that the limb was extended. His eyes screwed shut as he awaited the inevitable, but he never had the chance to swallow his own teeth. A firm ‘smack’ was administered to his wrist, making a figurative term suddenly very literal. One panel of hickory creaked open to reveal that he had, in fact, just been slapped on the wrist.

He could’ve fainted right then and there.

“There—don’t worry about your debt.” The man stated, releasing the younger’s arm with visible reluctance.

“B-but…” Yuuri began, though truthfully, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t have the money right then, and he definitely wasn’t going to ask to be hit _harder_.

The other shook his head, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. “I said don’t worry about it.”

After a passing moment of stalled silence, the man drew a deep breath and decided that it was time for him to take his leave. Yuuri could only watch, completely and utterly miffed, as he disappeared around the corner toward the door. He heard the doorknob turn and the slight squeak as it was pulled free from the frame, but the noise stopped.

The man poked his head back around the wall for a moment to say, “No more drugs. Cut back on drinking. That there—“ He pointed to the bottle of scotch he’d intentionally left on the table, “use that to ween yourself off, got it?” When Yuuri nodded, cheeks tinting slightly at the other’s authoritative tone, the man offered a small smile. “ _Dasvidaniya_ , Yuuri.” He exited, closing the door behind him with a definitive ‘ _click_ ’.

Yuuri slid out of the chair and onto the floor, face buried in his hands as the crushing gravity of reality once again placed him in a state of complete disorient.

He spent the next ten minutes dry heaving into his kitchen trash can.


	2. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I just couldn't help myself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I discussed plot with my girlfriend (an angel, truly, for letting me harp at her for hours about how conflicted I was about the way I wanted things to play out) and the plot has changed a bit from my original, and very loose, plan. Don't worry, it has changed in positive ways. Well... positive from a story-telling standpoint, that is (I say as I rub my hands together and grin deviously). But I am now positive that things will be getting violent, and there may end up being minor character death after all. All will be tagged in due time.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Consumption of alcohol and drugs, descriptions of nausea.

His eyelids peeled apart slowly, their weight and sensitivity a good indication that they were swollen. The first moments of consciousness bred hope, considering the absence of a cracked-open skull. He was almost convinced that he had been successful in _not_ drinking too much the night prior. His hope was quickly revoked by the stale taste of cheap beer sewn into his tongue like lace and the horrid ache in his stomach that threatened nausea. Absently, he wondered how he managed to escape the migraine that usually split his head down the middle and opened it up for all the world to fit inside. Was it the fact that he drank beer instead of liquor? Had he thrown up last night before losing the war with consciousness? Was there a god after all?

It was too early to consider the existence of deities… though he might argue that he _has_ been in the presence of such a creature, and he turned out to be rather generous. A hand extended into the fiery maelstrom from beyond black silk, capturing that train of thought and dragging it into the beyond to stow it away with the others. It was _definitely_ too early for recollections of cloudy locks falling like tapestries along flawless skin; for recollections of brilliant spinel accented by lava-lamp qualities of emotion. Too early for marble carved fingers holding glasses of molten jasper, and too early for honey-dripping words spilled from rose petal lips.

Shit.

A groan infiltrated the open air, hot breath with the scent of saliva-diluted alcohol permeating the chill in a wisp of grey. His hands met above his head as he stretched, toes pointing and back arching off of the couch to loosen the tension seizing his body. Aches ran deep into the muscles of his thighs and core as they tightened, _probably_ a reminder of the hours he spent dancing the night prior. He always ended up dancing. At least this time he didn’t have a phone for some random guy with a hard on to put their number in.

He hadn’t _meant_ to get so drunk last night—which directly translates to: he hadn’t gone out of his way to get completely shitfaced, but he didn’t exactly try to stop it from happening either. After all, Phichit made a rather compelling argument when he showed up in the middle of Yuuri’s shift to declare, “ _Work gave me a bonus! Drinks on me tonight. No excuses!_ ” He had, of course, initially denied the invitation for the sake of being polite and not wanting to spend Phichit’s money, but he was eventually worn down by his friend’s eagerness to celebrate his newest accomplishment. Who could say no to that?

And _maybe_ the stars aligned just so that some cheap, foul-tasting beer was half its normal price at their favorite bar, so _maybe_ Leo declared that they should drink twice as much. It was the only logical route to be taken, of course. That’s not to say that they actually made it that far, though not for lack of trying. Someone would have been hospitalized if that truly was the case, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t stay to close down the bar either. The owner seemed to like them well enough, especially considering that they were regular customers, so occasionally he would let them get away with their ridiculous antics (dancing on top of the bar, for example, which Yuuri was practically known for by now).

The night ended as it usually would when the entourage would go out together—Yuuri got entirely too inebriated and was sent home by someone else in a cab before he could find something even more destructive to get into. The poor cab driver was shoved into a tasteless one-sided conversation with the world’s sloppiest drunk, who may or may not have only been comprehensible because he was still reeling from the lines he did off of Phichit’s collarbones in the bathroom. Anyone who thought drunk Yuuri was chatty obviously hadn’t met high Yuuri.

Vocalizing a discontented whine, he rolled himself off of the couch and met the hardwood flooring with braced arms. It looked like he hadn’t made it very far into his apartment before he passed out, considering that his shoes were still on his feet and he slept through the night with no blankets. He pushed himself up to stand, immediately shedding his shoes and making his way to the kitchen sink for a glass of tap water. His eyes caught the bottle of scotch still sitting on the table along with two empty glasses. It was now a little over half empty. He swallowed his relief at the fact that he hadn’t tried to polish it off the night prior in his stupor.

Socked feet were careful to sidestep the broken bits of glass that still littered the floor from something he had no recollection of in order to reach the sink. He pulled open the cabinet above the counter that was decorated with the carcasses of past spirits, scanning for a clean glass to use. He should probably clean the apartment, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care at the moment. He wanted this foul taste out of his mouth, and then he wanted a drink.

His hand moved to turn the cold water on even as his head tipped forward to lean against the cabinet above the sink, the sound of water hissing as it met the inside of the glass cup somehow comforting in the stagnant silence. Quiescence wasn’t something he would have found himself abhorring before his ex-roommate left. Quiet used to equate with calm, with focus, with peace, serenity, all the garbage he felt when he had been so naive as to think that his life had continued to function from bottom of the ocean of liquor—the one with white shores that weren’t sandy. Silence used to lay with the warmth and comfort of a soft blanket.

Now, silence clings to every inch of his skin, begging for his undivided attention. Silence, funnily enough, is not so silent when it is a plea ringing through the halls of your ears; a plea to be drowned out, to be filled. He is grateful for the squeak of the handle as he turns the water off, and for the soft but present sound of his footsteps as he maneuvers around broken glass and down the hall to his room. He’s grateful for the sound of wheels rolling as he pulls out a dresser drawer to look for something to lounge in on his day off. Every little sound of life extinguishes the searing silence, at least for a moment.

Unfortunately, his detailed loathing of the breathless air in his apartment could only be a distraction for so long. The flames of his mind have exhausted that breathless air, and are moving to heat the underbelly of his primary concern to a demanding boil—rent. The thought alone bred panic in the form of nausea, smoke filling his lungs so that he couldn’t easily breathe. Fingers caught knots in dark hair, impatiently ripping them out as an almost imperceptible tremor set through his hands.

A shower—he needed a shower.

He made a grab for a shirt and a pair of sweats, shoving his drawer closed and heading in the direction of his bathroom. He collected a clean towel from beneath the sink and set it atop the back of the toilet, placing his new clothes on the sink and stepping over to turn on the hot water. He let it run, waiting to strip himself of his clothing until he was ready jump in the water, considering the fact that it was still entirely too frigid in his apartment to just be standing about in the nude. Unfortunately, unrest captured him in the few seconds it took for cold water to give way for more cold water, and he was left bouncing on his heels in an exertion of nervous energy.

_One-hundred dollars short on rent. Nothing left to sell. No paycheck for another week._

The last thing he wanted was to have this conversation with himself again. It was repetitive and destructive, which is exactly why his soul decided to latch onto it and force it to the forefront of his mind. Around and around he went, deciding that his rent would just have to be late this month, and that was that. That should have been that, but it was never that simple. Anxiety would creep in with its blackened, burning fingers, cradling his heart and lungs through his ripped open chest and breathing embers into his mouth. Flecks of fire died in his throat along with his knowledge of how to breathe, and the thoughts would echo and repeat themselves as he concluded that he couldn’t bear to be late on his rent, that every time he set himself back on a payment he ended up unable to catch up, and that he would lose his apartment the same way he lost everything else.

The floor beneath his feet was moving; melting as if from The Persistence of Memory. The sight of it blurred from vision as his eyes lost the will to focus, glasses slipping down his nose as a result of gravity. The soft hissing of running water lulled him into a comfortless state of remiss, willing the warring thoughts to fade once more.

He needed a drink.

 _Fuck_ —why did that thought have to be the one to bring clarity?

His life was composed of overlapping cycles, ones that he was helplessly swept into and carried away by until the current changed. Everything was circular. For instance, his anxiety fuels his alcoholism, and his alcoholism fuels his anxiety. His alcoholism fuels his addiction, and his addiction fuels his alcoholism. So on, so forth; lather, rinse, repeat. Even while swimming through waves meant to be surfed, he found himself clinging to the things that kept him from owning a surfboard. He was hopeless.

“Oh, shit—” He muttered, suddenly halting himself from re-entering the maelstrom and shoving his wrist under the steady stream of water. It was hot against his winter-kissed skin, and very much ready for him to pull the lever to start the shower. The shower head spat water meant to burn away the evidence of his poor choices, finally allowing him to shimmy from his mussed clothing and skirt around the shower curtain.

Boiling artificial rain pelted against underprepared flesh, eliciting a wince while he made work of turning the heat down a fraction. The sound of hissing water colliding with solid surfaces was soothing, its warmth a welcomed embrace even as chilled air made work of freezing the exposed skin not fortunate enough to fit under the spray. He leaned against the tiled wall, cold seizing his shoulder and a small portion of his skull. Honey cauldron eyes shifted to the ceiling as a shaky breath escaped him, mixing with the rolling steam.

God _damn_ , a **drink**.

* * *

The fabric of an outlandishly expensive suit sang symphonies of protest as it shifted to accommodate the surface of a cheap wooden barstool, somehow seeming temperamental despite being inanimate. Thin pillars of ivory drummed against the gloss-coated wood of the bar, eyes of bottled spring water washing over the shelves of liquor and varied assortment of beers on tap. He paused in his attempted destruction of the counter-top, holding up two fingers to the barkeeper who was regarding him with a fond smile. Faintly glossy lips stretched into a half-hearted reciprocal grin.

Two shot glasses were placed in front of him, the only noise between the pair being the ‘ _clink_ ’ of glass against the counter-top. He watched the bartender’s fingers skim along the shelves, hovering over a bottle of liquid amber at the highest mark. The barkeeper tossed a look over his shoulder for reassurance, to which he received a nod of approval. The selection, an old favorite, was aged enough to be considered a legal adult in this country. Thick fingers grasped the bottle by its neck, pulling it to fill the glasses sitting in front of the bar’s newest arrival.

As soon as the first shot of whiskey was poured, eager fingers took hold of the glass and seized the opportunity to toss it back. Sweet sherry burned holes in his throat and the base of his tongue, melting him from the inside as it trickled down to meet his stomach. The second shot shared the same fate, eliciting a whistle from the other in his presence. With a satisfied groan and cloudy locks swishing back into place over polished turquoise, he gave the bar a tap to ask for another round.

“You doing okay, Viktor?” The bartender asked, his voice laden with concern even as he set to work pouring the second round of inhibiting nectar.

“Define ‘okay’.” He managed to respond, earning himself a snort in return. The barkeep was well versed in listening to people’s problems, so the lax response came as no surprise.

“In that case, I’ll keep your tab open.” He offered, turning to place the bottle of poor decisions in an easily accessible spot before tending to other guests.

Viktor muttered a thanks to the rim of his glass, hands moving of their own accord to shuttle more alcohol into his system. Exposure to rapid fire indulgence had his vision lagging prematurely, tipsiness tugging at his cuffs and begging the tension in his shoulders to dissipate. An all too familiar desire lapped at his resolve, arm moving in a languid stroke to accommodate the fourth mouthful of leather and tobacco. The soft sound of glass against gloss was followed by a gentle exhale. His head fell against the back of his clasped hands, which were propped up by his elbows against the counter-top.

Swirling thoughts of a dimly lit club and the raucous pounding of too-loud music vibrating the cage of his ribs were a plague, rotting his defenses and allowing recollections of warm eyes and liquored lips to flood his mind. The breath of a body moving in time with his own, of sweet poetry whispered like a promise, bruised his soul in ways he’d all but forgotten they could. His fingers ached at the memory of gripping soft flesh in a kiss of death, dancing with mouths all too close and yet entirely too far away.

He thought of sweet honey dripping over panic, and he thought of a particular brand of awe whose familiarity was actively working to rip his heart from his chest. Something about the smooth bow of lips perched at the rim of a glass and the pinpricks of lust beneath tear-glossed eyes almost brought him to his knees. He would beg, _plead_ , if it meant he wouldn’t have to relive the longing he once felt, and Viktor was not a man who _begged_.

The bell above the door greeted a newcomer, the sound causing Viktor’s head to turn and slip against its placement on his hands. His long time colleague entered, all curly two-toned blonde and glinting jade sheathed by impossibly long lashes. Viktor was unsuccessful in his attempt to suppress a snort at the other’s choice of clothing—an all too deep v-neck shirt coupled with a suit jacket that rivaled Viktor’s own for most expensive garment in the room. He expected no less of his self-proclaimed ‘retired nymphomaniac’ of a best friend. Always a sucker for temptation, that one.

‘ _We’re all addicts_ ,’ he would say, and Viktor could do little to disagree, ‘ _You crave substance, I crave experience_ .’ He would say this between taking hits off of his bowl, face expressing raw joy as he recalled some night of passion with a man he would likely never see again. The smell of burning herb encased them as they passed the artsy glass piece between them. Viktor would contest his friend’s claims of chasing _experience_ , saying instead that he lived for _attention_. He was always met with a grin rivaling Cheshire and a warm, ‘ _That too, chéri_.’

“ _Bonjour_ , Viktor,” he greeted along an inhale, voice raised an octave higher than it normally might be. He lifted a hand in a friendly wave as he found his way to the other’s side. 

Viktor offered a polite smile in greeting, fingers breaking from their twining to return the gesture. He watched a curious olive gaze fall to the empty shot glasses near his elbows, thick brow arching to accent his inquiry. “I thought you were supposed to be sober these days.”

“As sober as I’ll never be, Chris.” As if to punctuate his confession, he flagged down the barkeep for another round.

Christophe slid gracefully onto the stool beside him, one leg crossing over the other. He ordered a drink of his own, some glass of wine that was probably approaching ‘ridiculous’ on the price point scale. “What happened, _mon cher_? Has Feltsman been breathing down your neck again?”

“What makes you think something happened?” He countered, chin resting in the palm of his hand as he regarded the other with a bored look. Even still, dual sapphires were dripping with conflict.

That earned him an amused exhale, the beginning of a laugh that never came. “To start, it’s noon on a Tuesday and you’ve chosen ‘ _Glendronach_ ’ as your mistress.” Chris’s tone was teasingly dry, head tipping slightly to accommodate the other’s shifted portrait.

Viktor sighed, visibly deflating as his arms stretched along the bar—careful not to disturb the bartender as he worked to refill the pair of shot glasses and administer the other’s red wine—and his cheek pressed against the cool gloss of the counter-top. His colleague managed a chuckle at his dramatics.

“I may have broken a rule.”

Chris feigned a gasp, fingertips pressing into the exposed skin of his chest as if scandalized. “You? Break a rule? My, who would have seen that coming?”

The older of the pair lifted his head, glaring at his friend through translucent lashes even as streams of silver draped over half of his visage. “Not just one of Yakov’s rules—it’s also one of _my_ rules.” He was awarded a look that entailed a lack of surprise from the other party present, which only proved to frustrate him more. _Honestly,_ did Chris have _any_ faith in him whatsoever? “I excused a debt.” He finally muttered, low and solemn as he shifted his gaze to a whiskey-filled glass.

Chris hummed, finally seeming to understand the source of Viktor’s dull mood. He leaned back, uncrossing his legs and righting his posture before prodding further. “Care to explain why?”

“Well,” Viktor began, pausing as porcelain fingers brought a swallow of alcohol to his lips and tipped it back. He made a sound of satisfaction before picking up where he left off, “to say that I _excused_ it would be inaccurate, because I paid it off. Personally.”

“I’m assuming Yakov doesn’t know.” Chris retorted, though he was fairly certain he already knew the answer. _Of course_ Yakov didn’t know, because Yakov knew next to nothing about Viktor’s personal life since his departure from Saint Petersburg all those years ago. Circumstances as they were, that was probably for the best.

There was a sigh; a warm, liquor-laced exhale discarded from plush lips as though that air never belonged in his lungs to begin with. “No, because _I lied._ ” Viktor hissed, his distress evident even as he reached to take another shot.

Chris caught his wrist, halting his shoveling of more whiskey into his system. “At this rate, I’ll be throwing you over my shoulder before the clock strikes one.” He chided, eyes following the shot glass as Viktor placed it back onto the bar. Chris wondered exactly how many Viktor had managed to choke down before he arrived.

“Chris, I don’t know what’s happening to me.” His hands lifted to comb through ashen locks, a shine that almost appeared metallic spilling through unmarred fingers and falling back into place. His nervous movements reflected the chaos in his mind; the lingering thoughts of _what could have been_ at war with the part of him that knew better. He knew that he was pulling at broken tethers, trying desperately to mix pieces of a different puzzle in with the new image that had been shoved in his lap.  

 _But what would happen if those pieces fit_?

 **No**. Stop that.

His admission was met with sympathy, which wasn’t exactly the expression he wished to be dealt at the moment. He would almost prefer Yakov’s firm admonishing, or a swift kick in the mouth. Those two things were scarily similar in feeling, that much he could attest to on account of having lived through both. “Then tell me what happened, Viktor.” Chris replied, voice melting into something entirely too soft and too comforting given the enormity of his fuck-up.

Maybe he wanted to be punished, to be told he was being a complete idiot and maybe _that’s_ why his friend’s understanding made him want to vomit. Or maybe he really had been drinking too fast—it was hard to tell when the world was a vignette and his clothes were too tight.

Viktor slipped out of his suit jacket, though not without struggle, and loosened the first two buttons of his crisp, boring white shirt, his body temperature seeming to have risen on account of his quick consumption of five shots in what could be considered rapid succession. Perhaps pacing himself would have been a better choice in the long run. With a charming slur, he managed to start his tale, “Can you believe—”

Chris cut him off swiftly. “Ah, ah—You know my Russian is limited to expletives and endearments. Please choose a language I actually speak.”

Viktor grumbled something incoherent, likely babble that didn’t fit into any of the languages he was proficient in, before switching back to English. When had he slipped into his native tongue to begin with, anyhow? “Can you believe that I was expected to administer discipline over _five-hundred dollars_?” He scoffed, eyes rolling as his grip tightened around the glass beneath his fingers (when had his hand found its way back to the whiskey?).

He had a way of speaking entirely too rehearsed and professional when nervous, slipping into a state of mind that would appease American authorities should they question him. It was as much of a default as it was a defense mechanism, and his present company was absolutely no stranger to it. The vocabulary that didn’t seem to fit into his normal patterns of speech because he was trying just that little bit harder to sound impressive, the hint of charm that burrowed into his tone, it was all so _guarded_. It meant he had something to hide.

“I’ve witnessed you break teeth over fifty dollars,” Christophe combatted easily, voice adopting an edge that was rarely heard outside of business. He hated to be hard on his dearest friend, but he knew the only way to help Viktor now was to be short and curt in his responses, “What makes this any different?”

“Angels are too pretty for broken teeth.” He mumbled, voice low and wistful as he worked hard to drill holes into the bottles behind the bar. It was a wonder that the glass wasn’t shattering from the sheer force of Viktor’s will.

All hope of being formal with Viktor went out the window. Chris concealed his smirk with a hand, feigning pensive as he shifted his gaze to accommodate the assortment of alcohol Viktor was mentally destroying. “Oh, _my_.” He couldn’t help himself, his mirth oozing between the cracks of his fingers and spilling out into the open air. “Another pretty thing to sink your teeth into?”

Viktor shook his head, catching his newly dried bottom lip between his teeth in a brief display of vulnerability. “The silhouette of a ghost I’ve been chasing, more like.”

The other’s full attention shifted back to Viktor, hand falling away from his mouth to reveal a quiet mouthing of, ‘ _Oh_ ’. Glossy jade skimmed marble features, searching for something he hadn’t seen in a while— _hope_. The flame was small, but it was there. “You don’t mean…”

A sigh. “I don’t think so.” Though his voice betrayed his longing, as if he was trying not to allow himself to see too far into things. “But there was something about his eyes, Chris. Living, breathing reverence trapped in molasses.” His words were slurred, trailing off at the end as a particular brand of wistfulness quieted him. “Frightening familiarity.”

Christophe nodded, allowing the other to have a moment with his thoughts before attempting to speak again. The pause was comfortable, and they both needed that moment to reflect. Chris used it as his opportunity to conjure up what he wanted to say next. Dancing around land mines might have been a simpler task. “What’s your next move, _chéri_?”

Viktor laughed, tossing back another shot before letting his head fall back into his hands. “I’ve already made my next move.” He was approaching comfortably numb, lips tingling even as his tongue swiped at the excess liquor retained in the corners of his mouth. “I just couldn’t help myself.”

* * *

 

The world around him appeared lost, blurring out without borders, and the only object in focus happened to be this disquieting envelope marked with his name. His brows were drawn together by braided strings of confusion, mouth in a thin line as he attempted to x-ray the letter’s contents. He held it daintily between gloved fingers, scrutinizing it with every shred of intuition he had. People walked by, their shoes against the pavement a sound that kept him grounded. They didn’t pay him much mind.

Of few things he was certain: it was not his birthday and that meant that this was probably not Phichit’s doing, there were no stamps or addresses written, which meant his family in Hasetsu hadn’t sent this, and it must have been hand delivered given that, again, there were no stamps or addresses. Just ‘ _Yuuri_ ’.

His first and most paranoid instincts were screaming at him to beware of anthrax, though he quickly suppressed those thoughts on account of preserving what little sanity he had left. He couldn’t imagine that anyone from work knew where he lived, and the only person from the dance studio who had ever been to his apartment was Yuri. He might have considered that the ballerina was playing a prank on him if he hadn’t seen his handwriting beforehand—there was no way he could create the big, swooping, calligraphic letters on this envelope that spelled out his name, and correctly at that.

Maybe someone was attempting to blackmail him? Death threats? Some kind of stalker? Someone who— _God_ , he needed a _fucking drink_.

Instead of torturing himself longer, (which _really_ , he would _love_ to), he used his teeth to slide his hand from a glove and worked to tear the envelope open. Inside, there appeared to be a blank, white card like one might receive for a holiday. Curious, he slipped his fingers beyond the gnarled top of the envelope and pulled the card free, placing its previous casing against the back. He thumbed it open with the gloved hand, eyes widening as he began to hallucinate American currency falling onto the ground.

Two quickened heartbeats passed before he realized that he was not, in fact, hallucinating and that there was actual money pouring from the card in his hands, which was now threatening to blow away in the sparse afternoon wind. “ _Shit_ ,” he hissed under his breath, immediately swooping down to gather the lost bills and messily pile them back into the envelope with the other. “Shit.” He cursed again, louder, and snapped the card closed.

He gripped the piece of mail tightly, as though it might vanish if he didn’t try to grind it into dust, and slammed his mailbox shut before starting off briskly in the direction of his house. He tried not to think until he was safely up the stairs and beyond the door of his apartment, focusing instead on making his feet move quickly without tripping. Luckily, his mailbox wasn’t too far from his front door. Burning hickory threw glances over both shoulders, attempting to make sure that no one had seen him drop what appeared to be a large sum of cash from an unmarked birthday card.

He fumbled with his keys to unlock his house, all thoughts of going to the library to check his email and look for quick gigs on Craigslist abandoned. He groaned, taking a deep breath in attempt to calm the vibration of his hands. Who made his door so fucking difficult to unlock, anyway? Once the lock clicked into place and his hand turned the knob, the door was thrown open and he was speed walking around the corner to the dining room table. He slapped the letter down before running back to close the door and lock it.

One more turn around the corner revealed that he _still_ wasn’t hallucinating, and the card and envelope were very much _still_ in existence. He inhaled a deep breath, eyes closing tight behind his blue-rimmed glasses as shaky hands coiled into his hair. The tug of fingers curled into dark locks provided some solace in the form of pain in his scalp, for which he was thankful.

 _Oh_ , he had really done it this time. He was used to hearing tales of his drunken, and slightly debaucherous, acts, most of which were blush-worthy. Most of the time he even remembered enough to put the pieces together himself, but _this_ —this was agonizingly reminiscent of the embarrassing number of offers made to him to join the adult film industry, or become a prostitute, or work as a male entertainer, or _just wear something sexy and come give me a private show_. These were offers—save for the last one—that he had, admittedly, considered and decided that he was simply too awkward and private to take up at this point in his life. Sober, that is. Even if the amount of time spent sober in the last while was far outweighed by his time spent intoxicated, high, or both.

So, what if there was a block of last night that he just couldn’t remember, and he’d finally decided to take up one of those offers to make up for his missing rent? What if he blacked out and just thought that he remembered the majority of the night’s events? What if he had a quickie with some loaded random in the bathroom at the bar? He needed to go to the clinic _immediately_.

But he knew he was getting ahead of himself, and he should probably, _definitely_ , look into the card a little more before he started walking to a payphone to call Phichit and demand a full recap of the previous night. Opening his eyes and letting the grip on his hair relax, he reached out to grab the card. The front of it was glossy white, like the printing company had forgotten the campy, ridiculous imagery that often decorated these birthday-style cards. He pulled it open, sliding the alarmingly thick stack of currency into his palm and placing it to the side. He was almost afraid to count it—did he really want to cement his fate with a number? Somehow that felt like acceptance, and he wasn’t ready to accept a damn thing.

The sight of more curling letters had his heart leaping hurdles; the damn thing had to be a track star by now, given the abuse his anxiety dealt on a regular basis. He read through it the first time without actually comprehending it, which prompted him to start again at the top.

_‘Yuuri,_

_To get you back on your feet. Take care of yourself._

_And get better locks._

_-V’_

He was fairly certain he was going to vomit, if the flooding of saliva into his mouth and the nauseating fist clenching his stomach was anything to go by. He swallowed, and then swallowed again, willing his body not to choose this moment to betray him. His vision blurred, cryptic message going out of focus as he placed the card back on the table. Rather than allow himself to empty the morning’s surplus of hydration and the apple he’d eaten as an afterthought onto the floor at his feet, he blindly stumbled to the kitchen trashcan.

His fingers gripped at the hard black surface through the thin trash bag, soft plastic sticking uncomfortably to his sweaty palms as he stared into the pile of crumpled paper towels, styrofoam, and what have you. He opened his mouth, expecting to wretch but never committing. The excess of saliva dripped into the trash in strings as his vision caught on the ‘ _Cup-of-Noodles_ ’ label.

V.

He closed his mouth, resigned to the fact that he would have to suffer through his anxious nausea without seeing productive results. A hand released one side of the trashcan, the trash bag rustling as it was pulled away from perspiring skin. He used the back of it to wipe his mouth before chancing another glance in the direction of the card.

Flashes of spring water eyes and glossy silver hair resurfaced, though he did his best to quiet his thoughts. The thought that He, _That Man_ , had slipped money into his mailbox with the intention of helping him turn his life around was absolutely ludicrous, and it was one that he couldn’t allow himself to indulge in. He was an idiot for even considering it as a possibility, and what was even more idiotic was the shred of relief he felt once his mind decided to associate a person who dealt in drug money negotiations with this outlandish ‘ _Get better!_ ’ letter.

Even though he couldn’t think of anyone else who might be criticizing his locks, of all things.

Bleeding honey shifted back to the money—oh _god_ , could he even touch it? Maybe he should scoop it back into the envelope and just shove it all back into his mailbox, badly taped together, and pretend it had never existed in the first place. The mailman would probably pick it up and take it to the post office if he decided not to touch it for weeks.

Then again, and _god_ did he hate when it came down to ‘ _then again_ ’, maybe… Maybe he _should_ take it. His rent was due in two days, and he was still short one-hundred dollars. Whatever the scenario was in which he’d been gifted a relatively anonymous sum of money from someone who had clearly decided they fancied him as their charity case, maybe he should just… look the other way, just this once. It wasn’t like giving it back would be a simple task, and he was clearly in a bit of a financial crisis. Maybe ‘V’ was some weird guardian angel sent to keep his life from getting any worse than it already was.

His pride could take another blow. Whether he admitted it readily or not (he didn’t), he needed the money.

Tentative fingers took hold of the poorly constructed stack, bills sticking out in an array of different ways. One fact that he’d conveniently glossed over in his attempt to pretend that the money did not actually exist was that the stack was entirely composed of hundred-dollar bills. He swallowed the bile attempting to crawl up the walls of his throat, willing his stomach to settle and his ribs to stop cracking under the pressure of his heart’s pounding.

He sifted through the stack with about as much ease as he could possibly muster, totaling it up to two-thousand dollars. That was enough to cover his rent and then some. He could feel his throat collapsing, tears rising and threatening to spill from his lower lids. The money fell from his hands and onto the table with a trembling inhale, chest feeling as though it might burst. His knees betrayed him, forcing him to the floor as saline rolled down his cheeks and dripped from his chin. Hands found their way to his mouth just as he choked out a sob.

 _God fucking dammit_ , he needed a **drink**.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"probably a reminder of dancing" - a side effect of cocaine withdrawal is aching muscles.  
> "The Persistence of Memory"- A painting by Salvador Dali; the one with the melting pocket watches.  
> Glendronach- Top shelf whiskey
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and thank you to those of you who left such warm and welcoming comments on the first chapter. I know this one was kind of slow, but I'm ramping you up for several chapters of distress. Let me know what you thought! It feeds my will to write faster. By the way, Viktor totally would break into Yuuri's house and then criticize his locks.


	3. Suck, Bang, and Blow Me, Asshole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Trixie Mattel voice* Oh, y'all wanted a twist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this to say: Phichit would.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Violence, blood, drugs and the like.
> 
> Don't do drugs, kids. Definitely don't mix alcohol and drugs.

While _his_ world might have stopped turning when he subscribed to the notion that he’d been gifted two-thousand dollars by some ‘ _V_ ’ shrouded in mystery, the world around him carried on as it always would. It may have taken several hours for him to reach that conclusion and successfully come down from a fit of emotional distress, but he reached it and that’s what mattered. He managed to collect each shattered fragment of his person and hoist himself off of the hardwood, placed enough money to cover his rent in an accessible location, and stowed the rest away for other intents and purposes. Not to mention he had money of his own that was supposed to have been put towards his current living arrangement that was now accessible for other necessities such as groceries and utility bills.

After a much needed hot shower, he’d managed to busy himself with a glass of scotch and a broom, and he cleaned up the shards of glass that had taken residence in his kitchen some time ago. It took a few rounds with the dustpan in order to get it all, but it felt so _normal, functional_ to be doing something as simple and necessary as cleaning. He ran a kitchen rag under warm water once all of the glass was taken care of, kneeling and scrubbing the floor a bit harder than necessary where dried remnants of alcohol had created a sticky residue on the tile. Empty bottles found their way into the trash bin he’d so elegantly hunched over hours prior, though it felt like an eternity had passed since he first opened that letter. It was a particular brand of soul-cleansing to be able to move through his kitchen without evidence of his mistakes casting shadows like sinewy arms overhead.

Maybe, just _maybe_ , things were actually going to get better.

He spent the rest of that night in a comfortable haze, his mind having mostly shut down in order to continue functioning on a basic level. The silence wasn’t suffocating; wasn’t reverberating through the halls of his ears and causing his thoughts to echo. He sat, staring blankly at dull white walls and sipping liquid flame in an almost disturbing state of peace. For the first time in a long time, the hellfire beneath his skin wasn’t burning white hot. He didn’t feel like he was rotting from the inside out; he was simply existing.

For the first time in a long time, it was okay for him to just _exist_.

The next day brought a new shift. It was a night shift, so he managed to get his phone turned back on during daylight hours. Having his phone again was pivotal. It was incredibly hard for him to work without any point of contact, being that one of his managers might have been tempted to call him in or change his schedule and they simply couldn’t. It also made it so that he had no option of calling out, should he have needed to (though honestly, he'd needed the money so bad recently that someone could have shot him in the foot and he would _still_  have shown up). Not having a phone also made it infinitely harder to get a second job, for the above reasons and more.

Despite his recent war with silence, he felt that he needed a day of peace to recover from the past week’s jarring emotional stress, and so he waited to text Phichit. Work wasn’t any more hectic than usual. He managed to skate through his shift with little to no human interaction. Aside from substance withdrawals, which were a large thing to place aside, he was in decent condition. Eating, de-stressing, nursing the remnants of a bottle left on his dining room table by a man who could be Death himself for all Yuuri knew… Those were all things he would constitute as being in decent condition.

He repeated the same pattern as the night before, though this time he was able to busy himself by catching up on the plethora of pictures and status updates that his social media obsessed best friend posted while his phone was off. He found himself smiling, despite being agonizingly just-tipsy and craving lines, while he scrolled through image after image that Phichit uploaded to document their nights out. He lingered on a photo of himself and friends, faces flushed from a mixture of drugs and dancing, in Phichit and Leo’s dorm room celebrating the end of finals week a few years back. The image directly following that one was a snapshot of Yuuri himself singing along, and poorly at that, to a 90’s chart-topper that Leo insisted they should all know and love.

The shred of normalcy did little to soothe his soul’s incessant yearning, but he couldn’t find it in him to complain. He fell asleep that night to videos he saved on his phone of good people and good fun.

And then, he was digging up that god forsaken hand-out he’d been given so that he could get a money order, run it by his landlord's office, and maybe even get a half gallon of cheap vodka to help appease his quaking hands for the next few days. Things seemed pleasantly mundane. He’d even been able to apply for jobs online through the aid of his newly returned cellphone—’ _decent_ ’ jobs. Office assistant positions and things that actually aligned with where he wanted to be at this point in his life, not just retail and serving.

So _why_ —and he was _genuinely_ asking—was he standing in a club watching his best friend climb over a bar in the name of _Suck, Bang, and Blow_?

* * *

The trill of his phone’s alarm pulled him from a dream he wasn’t likely to remember until later in the day, evidence of his slumber clinging to his lashes without breath of relent. A grunt of impatience escaped him as he fumbled to grasp his cellular, pressing the button to silence its incessant nagging before letting his cheek drop back into his pillow. A hand snaked its way up to rub the night’s gunk from his eyes.

He allowed himself to bask in the warmth of his sheets for a while, breathing in the scent of cheap shampoo from his still-damp pillowcase. He managed a yawn, exhaustion tempting him to fall back into the readied clutches of unconsciousness. Unfortunately for him, another temptation made itself known quite promptly. He was absolutely hopeless, his soul yearning for a drink and a line before he’d even been able to escape the warm embrace of his comforter.

His muscles ached as he shifted to sit up, blanket pooling at his waist as crisp air seized the exposed skin of his arms. With limbs stretching overhead and neck twisting this way and that, he allowed a pained exhale to skit between his teeth. The sunlight filtering in from the blinds that didn’t happen to be blocked by his dresser—he couldn’t bring himself to move it back just yet—was too bright, almost offensive in its assault on the darkness of his room. A hand fumbled to grab his glasses from the nightstand, accidentally stabbing himself the first time he tried to put the damned things on his face. Eventually he found success, and the blurred image of his room came into focus.

He managed to slide out of bed, hissing as his feet hit the ground and his muscles strained to keep him oriented. He took his phone with him on his way to the restroom, hoping to splash some water on his face to wake him up before he rummaged through the kitchen to make himself a dri—a glass of _water_. He should probably try to Skype with his family at some point in the day just to make sure that they hadn’t tried to contact him while his phone was out of service. He tried to check in regularly, anyway. It would be a good distraction. Healthy.

The other pressing matter regarding his phone was that he genuinely feared what would happen to him if Phichit found out he’d ‘fixed’ his phone and hadn't bothered to text him—Yuuri told him it was broken rather than the fact that his plan had been cancelled for his outstanding balance. He felt a tad guilty about not sending his friend a message the very moment his cell was back in working order, but the relative peace of the prior day had been much needed.

He paused in the hallway, deciding that sooner was always better than later when it came to Phichit, and set to work putting in his passcode. The phone unlocked, allowing him to navigate through his messages and select his friend’s name from the top. Their last conversation had been centered around their schedules and Phichit’s efforts to organize a ‘family game night’. The corner of his mouth tugged into the ghost of a smirk. Somehow those game nights always started with a video game tournament and ended drunk and passed out with half-eaten slices of pizza worn like accessories. 

 

**To: Phich**

_Hey, phone’s fixed_.

 

He locked the device before continuing on his path to the bathroom. The mirror told tales of an exhausted man, ones that Yuuri would be wrong to deny. With an exhale, he placed his phone down on the sink and turned on the hot water. He let the cold run out, his fingers just below the steady flow as he impatiently awaited warmth. Once it felt safe to administer to his face, he wet his hands and pressed them to the flesh of his cheeks. The evidence of his sleep was lost to the sink drain. He made a blind grab for the towel hanging on the rack behind him just as his phone vibrated against porcelain, making a noise that was all too loud for how still his lifeless apartment was.

After successfully toweling off his face and hands, he returned his attention to the three new messages. Honestly, he was a bit surprised that it had taken Phichit so long to answer. He must be just waking up.

 

**From: Phich**

_!!!!_  
_Just in time!!_  
_It’s Friday ;)_

He openly grimaced at the message, knowing _exactly_ what his friend was implying. The problem wasn’t that he _didn’t_ want to go out with Phichit, the problem was that he _did_ want to go out and simply knew that he shouldn’t. With his willpower’s current glass qualities, fragile and transparent, he couldn’t trust himself to be in a situation where things were so easily accessible just yet. The phone was laid back down on the sink while he set to work brushing his teeth and scrubbing the morning film off of his tongue. The taste of overbearing mint was at least preferable to the that of stagnant saliva.

He shoved his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants before taking off in the direction of his kitchen, pointedly ignoring the now-empty bottle on the dining room table as if the mere sight of it would make him burst into flames. Honestly, it was a miracle that it lasted as long as it did. Yuuri had never been a lightweight, even before his tolerance, and so he’d only been able to breach tipsy with the amount he was allotting himself every night. That fact was nothing short of infuriating, but he would rather ration than relive the grueling experience of quitting altogether.

He had a mission; hydrate, eat something, and then focus on paying his rent before his shift started.

He had been forced to wake up earlier than he might have wanted to in order to make it to the bank before his shift started, but he had initially been happy not to be closing for once. Mid-shifts were the most low maintenance, and Celestino always made it a point to get him out of the store at a decent time on Friday nights as some sort of a ‘ _thank you_ ’ for his tendency not to be a pain in his ass. Celestino had mentioned it to him once in passing, and it had seemed like a nice gesture at the time. Though now, with the thought of Phichit attempting to coerce him into partying that night, he almost wished that he _did_ have to work late so that he wouldn’t have to outright refuse his friend’s offer of partaking in their ritualistic shenanigans. He’d never been good at telling Phichit no, but then again, he didn’t know anyone who was.

At some point, he reached the sink and filled a glass. The cool water felt nice against his dry throat and tongue, especially combined with the lingering chill of his toothpaste. His gaze shifted to the fridge. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he knew he should at least try to eat something. Fruit seemed to be the only thing that might agree with his morning stomach, so he continued the pattern of the previous days and plucked an apple from the plastic bag on the second shelf. The thought of consuming anything more high maintenance  was nauseating, and as long as he ate _something_ , he could pretend he was trying to keep up with his body’s needs.

Speaking of needs-

 **No**. Stop thinking about it. _Stop_ thinking about it.

He rummaged for his phone again in search of a distraction. He should probably be sending a response anyway, so the motion was dual-purpose. His soul ached with every letter his thumbs tapped into the touch keyboard, and he willed it to keep quiet.

 

**To: Phich**

_I think I’m going to have to sit this one out :/_

 

**From: Phich**

_Yuuri Katsuki?? Sit out Friday Night Festivities??  
_ _You have to go, it won’t be fun without you!_

 

He snorted at that. He was positive that Phichit and company would have to genuinely _try_ to have a bad night in order to not have fun, regardless of whether or not he was there. He appreciated the sentiment either way.

 

**To: Phich**

_Flattery will get you nowhere_

 

**From: Phich**

_Come on, don’t be that way!_  
_I’ll buy your drinks_  
_Leo has snow white ;)_

 

Yuuri’s fingers hovered over the keys, bottom lip trapped between his teeth as he attempted to shoo away the voices begging him to cave. He wanted to— _needed_ to. Before he could commit to any response, he slid his phone back into his pocket and headed in the direction of his room to get dressed. Bank, landlord, work. _Bank, landlord, work._

Not committing to a, ‘ _No, thanks!_ ’ right away was his first mistake.

* * *

His shift went by more quickly than he anticipated, the stress of obtaining a money order and delivering his rent to the landlord’s office having dissolved as soon as he placed the slip of paper in the locked box perched on the wall. He would have liked a moment to be relieved, though he could not be so fortunate. With that distraction out of the way, his mind wholly committed itself to a massacre of all thoughts pertaining to convincing himself that going out was _definitely_ a bad idea. The war his bleeding soul waged against his willpower trapped him within his own head, doing his best to play the mediator in the wake of his own thoughts. It always came down to arguing with himself, and no matter how long he spent going around in circles, he was always the only one to lose. 

His hands shook as he straightened racks of clothing, which only served to feed into his withdrawal-induced agitation. His toes were perched at the edge of a cliff, staring into a chasm lined with ill-timed snark and biting retorts. It was disquieting to feel so inclined to snap. He was generally a calm person, after all. The boiling desire for dancing juice and the apsirin-reminiscent taste of brain-wide serotonin increase crawled beneath the surface of his skin and caused him to sweat. An inconvenience, yes, but he shouldn't be so inclined to react negatively to it. He would almost prefer to suffer through his previous feelings of abandonment.

He could hardly focus long enough to keep conversations with one of his more insistent coworkers on his break. He didn’t really _want_ to talk to them anyway. It was nothing personal, he knew that. Dealing with humans just wasn’t something he was itching to do at the moment—not when his bones ached and he craved a particular brand of euphoria. He knew his system was rebelling against him for the sudden loss of poison, especially considering the fact that he’d so recently been coking himself up in higher quantities to deal with the agony of not being able to stumble through his day with a bottle in tow. Perhaps this time he would finally realize that the correct way to go about loss of one substance was not to simply overcompensate with another.

At one point he got so frustrated with the amount of clothing that had been left on the floor in one particular section of the store that he had to excuse himself to the back, his own irritation becoming overwhelming. More than a few calming breaths and pacing steps later, he successfully detached himself from the situation and managed to get through his shift without wrapping his fingers around the neck of a teenage girl in a cute crop top who decided that it was beyond her ability to place clothing back on the rack she’d picked it up from. He elected instead to simply glare at her from behind racks and passive-aggressively clean after her in hopes she might get the hint as she breezed through the store with the grace of a _fucking tornado_. She did not get the hint, but she _did_  eventually throw him a defensive look as though she was afraid he might be following her around in hopes of getting her phone number.

Yuuri did not want her phone number. Yuuri wanted her to leave.

His second mistake had been checking his phone in the middle of his near-meltdown to see more coaxing messages from Phichit, who really did mean well, but was sorely misinformed about the state of Yuuri’s current mental, emotional, and physical health. That much was Yuuri’s own fault for keeping his life outside of their interactions under wraps and lying about his sudden loss of muscle and the slow hallowing of his face. The problem was that although Phichit saw Yuuri drink and take lines every time they hung out, Phichit was not an addict. Since he himself was also partaking in the aforementioned activities every time they hung out, he was not quick to catch on that Yuuri was not simply a social user.

 

**From: Phich**

_Just come hang out for an hour, I’ll make sure you don’t get sick this time._  
_It’ll be fun!_  
_Guang-Hong is sad. He says he misses you._  
_Yuuuuri!!!!_

 

An hour. He could do an hour, right?

No, he knew better. He had to be firm.

He steeled his resolve, deciding that he would stay in. Under no circumstances whatsoever could he go out partying. That was that, and that’s how it was going to stay. Phichit seemed to take the hint after he elected not to respond, as Yuuri was not entirely trusting of himself under current circumstances. That much was a relief, but it didn’t do much to silence the quake in his hands or keep him from perspiring damn near incessantly.

And then there was the matter of the empty bottle of scotch on his dining table, which stirred up a myriad of thoughts that he was in no place to confront presently. Memories of heaven-born features which had decided to associate themselves with the letter placed so conveniently in his mailbox in his time of need—much to Yuuri's dismay—were shoved to the back of his mind behind a chorus of, ' _Don't think about it! Don't think about it! Don't think about it!_ '

It would be far worse for him to cut out drinking entirely while his body was still dependent on it, _right_?  Especially considering he was fresh out of cocaine and was already paying the price for it. He was really just being responsible in wanting to make a run for a cheap bottle of vodka that was frighteningly reminiscent of acetone. Or at least, that’s what he had managed to conclude.

Naturally, he stopped at the liquor store on his walk home and grabbed his tried-and-true cheap fix, a plastic bottle with the ‘ _McCormick_ ’ label containing a substance that smelled like it was designed to treat open wounds. The man behind the counter mentioned that he hadn’t seen Yuuri come in lately, and that he was beginning to wonder if he ran off to one of their competitors. Yuuri conjured a laugh and some teasing banter about loyalty despite the way his stomach turned at the fact that he was not only a regular at this particular liquor store, but that he was a frequent enough customer that the employees noticed when he wasn’t coming in. First his drug dealer and now his cashier, what would his parents think?

His third and final mistake was to check his phone after having a mixed drink—and the term should be used loosely, given that it was mostly alcohol—or three. He punched in his passcode and the screen opened to his earlier conversation with Phichit. He read through the conversation again, feeling a tad guilty for leaving his friends without a response. In retrospect, they were probably worried about his bizarre reaction. His thumbs were poised over the keys as he mulled over just what he wanted to say.

 

**To: Phich**

_Sorry, I was at work. Are you guys having fun?_

 

It was a matter of seconds before Phichit replied with a video. How that boy always managed to respond so quickly was beyond Yuuri’s comprehension. They were at a club instead of their usual bar; some dark place with colored lights and neon signs, and music that was surely felt in their chests judging by how loud and scratchy it was through his cell speakers. The video began with a sweaty Phichit in a fit of giggles, and you could see his finger rise to tap the screen and switch from the front camera. He yelled something barely coherent and definitely slurred about ‘ _oh my god, fucking ruthless_ ’ out of frame and zoomed in on Leo rolling a blunt in his lap under the bar. Leo smiled into the camera and shushed Phichit, bringing a finger to his lips as if he wasn’t being absolutely conspicuous. Guang-Hong was entirely white-faced in the background, looking dangerously close to having a conniption. It was clearly a video that Phichit had saved from his Snapchat.

Yuuri couldn’t help but smirk, finding the situation to be even funnier given Phichit’s unchained peels of laughter. He couldn’t help the pang of jealousy at not being able to attend, typing back a quick response to share his amusement. He placed his phone down on his leg, shifting his attention back to the vodka not-so-cranberry that was begging for his attention. Tipsiness clung to the ends of his lashes, lids drooping comfortably as he swallowed a burning mouthful of alcohol with a drop or two of tart juice sprinkled in like an excuse.

He felt his phone vibrate against his jeans, pulling his gaze back down to his thigh. The Snapchat notification lit up his screen, displaying that Phichit had sent him another video. He unlocked his phone once again, swiping the notification to take him directly to his friend’s snap. It was a shot of Phichit, Leo, and Guang-Hong, all smiling and hesitating for the few seconds it took their inebriated brains to catch up to the fact that the phone was recording them. In the closest thing to unison that they could have possibly achieved, the trio called out, “We miss you, Yuuri!” Before it turned into the three of them pleading with him in alternating half-sentences to come hang out.

A mirthful huff skitted past his lips, hand slipping through soft hair. They were persistent, and would probably continue sending him play-by-plays of the entire night. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since they’d gone out without him. _Well_ —he mused, and it was never a good thing when he started with ‘ _Well,_ ’— _I’m already meeting my nightly quota, so as long as I don’t drink at the club, it should be fine._

_Right?_

* * *

Wrong. He had been miserably, hopelessly wrong, and part of him wondered if he would ever tire of being incorrect. But he was so _good_ at it.

His first red flag was that Phichit had immediately stumbled up upon sight of him with a ridiculous grin and an extra shot in hand, smelling strongly of vodka-Redbull and weed. His bangs were swept out of his face with the aid of sweat, face stained cardinal from drinks and dancing. The club was packed, and it was a wonder he could even walk without getting elbowed in the head, the side, or what have you. The music thrummed pleasantly through Yuuri's ribs just as he thought it might have, and he couldn’t help the smile tugging at chapped lips in response. Most people were standing around in groups, yelling over the latest songs about sex and swaying lightly. There were, of course, groups of people grinding and groping, and Yuuri couldn’t help but notice that they were absolutely killing it. Or, maybe he was drunk.

“Yuuri, you made it!” Phichit announced in greeting, arms raising above his head despite the precarious dual-fisted drink situation. “This place is insane! _I think I’m going to fuck the bartender._ ”

Phichit had a habit of completely losing what little filter he had when under the influence, rivaling Yuuri himself for most boisterous and brash. The other couldn’t suppress his laughter, his own inhibitions all but ceasing to exist with the help of his pre-gaming. “Maybe get his number tonight and have sex with him another time.” He suggested, though he was fully aware that any attempts to coach the other were falling on deaf ears. Luckily, he was also aware that Phichit would probably throw up in the bathroom and want to go home before he had the chance to make any decisions he might regret in the morning.

His friend just rolled slate eyes and forcefully shoved a shot of something nameless into the other’s unwilling hands. Yuuri attempted to protest, but was quick to swallow his own tongue when Phichit threatened to pour the shot into Yuuri’s mouth for him. _He would do it, too_. Phichit grabbed the other’s wrist, dragging him along to where Leo and Guang-Hong were sitting at the bar and animatedly conversing about how much they absolutely abhorred the management at their respective places of employment. He managed to catch something along the lines of, ' _Oh, and don't even get me started on how she always makes me do her job for her_ ,' with a health roll of brass eyes and a following groan of frustration.

Yuuri was introduced with a cheerful, "Ta-da!" and an accompanying pair of arms raised in presentation. The others greeted him with plenty of enthusiasm, cutting their conversation short to yell praises over the raucous music. Their tone flipped a full one-eighty degrees upon sight of their resident trouble-maker, which had Yuuri grinning something coy and giving a sheepish wave. He polished off the proffered shot of what was likely bourbon after some encouragement, placing the glass down with a flourish. His face of distaste at the residual liquor clinging to the base of his tongue melted into amusement when his group of friends broke into cheers.

“Atta boy!” Leo shouted, clapping a hand over Yuuri’s shoulder and giving him a friendly shake. He finished off his near-empty beer with his free hand in the spirit of good friends and loud music, the bottom of an emerald tinted bottle slamming down against the bar as he sighed in satisfaction.

Yuuri ran through a round of hugs with the entourage, apologizing to Guang-Hong when he whined about him taking entirely too long to get there. He was beginning to wonder if they'd believed him at all when he said he wasn't coming out, though he supposed he couldn't blame them for being skeptical. After all, he was here now, wasn't he? He probaly should have been admonishing himself for giving in right about then, but those thoughts vacated around the time Phichit had started complaining about his lackluster mood upon entering the venue. 

Guang-Hong and Leo shouted over one another to tell the tale of Phichit charming free drinks out of one of the bartenders, the man in the hot seat feigning innocence all the while. It was an interesting story; one that was almost too believable considering Phichit's persuasive abilities (ones that Yuuri was still not entirely convinced had nothing to do with witchcraft). Apparently, it had taken ten full minutes of very obvious innuendos and increasingly risque drink names before the man caved and slid him a cocktail on the house. The one doing the charming attempted to pretend he didn't know  _exactly_  what he was doing, but ultimately failed at looking bashful when he was called out for trailing his fingers along the bartender's forearm.

"One of these days you won't be so lucky," Yuuri teased, though he wasn't exactly convincing behind his telling grin.

"Hasn't happened yet," Phichit shot back with a guilty shrug.

Soon thereafter, Leo slid off of his stool, shouting something to the group over the noise about dancing as he pulled Guang-Hong by the hand. The younger of the pair, who recently turned twenty-one years old, had a healthy flush as he allowed himself to be led onto the dance floor. Leo released the other's hand to raise his arms above his head once he found a spot he fancied, turning on-beat and letting the other approach him at his leisure. Yuuri watched them fondly as they moved together and apart with bent knees and body rolls. Their movements echoed silliness with a dollop of sensuality befitting of the current track blasting from speakers stationed around the room. 

The club itself was smaller—some hole in the wall place with somewhat of an exclusive feeling to it. He noticed the small area set up for someone to DJ, complete with a stage that was probably used for karaoke on a designated night of the week. It was a nice change of pace from their usual environment, seemingly tailored to their carefree interests. That fact made it easy for them to get away with things that weren't entirely legal, if the initial video he'd been sent was anything to draw from. The vibe was enticing in that it was low maintenance, energy in a constant state of ebbing and flowing as if the atmosphere itself sought to retain its equilibrium, and the way the speakers were set up was designed to cocoon them in music.

The loud clinking and shattering of glass pulled Yuuri’s attention back to where he could’ve sworn Phichit had at one point been standing. He was no longer standing in said location because he was now crouched on top of the bar, laughing giddily with his hands in those of the bartender, who appeared to be pulling Phichit over the counter for some unfathomable reason. The sound of destruction had come from his friend’s knees accidentally throwing Leo’s empty beer bottle and Yuuri’s shot glass over the counter, where they met their untimely fate on the floor. Those nearby looked on in amusement, probably having been subscribed to the tale of Phichit and The Barkeep themselves if it was anywhere as entertaining as Yuuri had been lead to believe.

The bartender laughed along, head tipping back with the force of his mirth. “Let me clean up this glass,” he managed between fits of amusement, "You just sit tight for now.” The man, dirty blonde and bearded, patted Phichit’s knees before slipping away to find a broom and a dustpan. He looked to have had a few drinks of his own, which was neither uncommon nor unexpected of those working so closely with alcohol. That much was especially true in a place like this, considering that the aforementioned blunt rolling incident went on without a hitch before Yuuri’s arrival.

Yuuri was decidedly not drunk enough to not need an explanation. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, the bartender, Emil—That’s his name, _Emil_ . He said he would teach me how to make a _Suck, Bang, and Blow_ , so I’m jumping the bar.” Phichit explained, a hand coming out to steady himself using Yuuri’s shoulder just as he started to lose his balance. “I get to play barkeep, isn’t this place fun?”

Only Phichit could charm his way behind the bar and start helping the staff make drinks without a lick of personal experience. Yuuri could vouch for said lack of experience, seeing as he's been subject to Phichit’s mixing skills, which were quite elegantly explained as, ‘ _I_ _don’t make my drinks to taste good. I make my drinks to get you shitfaced_.’ He achieved that goal, to his credit.

“Please be careful, okay?” Yuuri pleaded, though he knew there wasn’t much he could do to stop his friend from doing just whatever the hell he wanted. Drunk Phichit was a force to be reckoned with.

Phichit simply grinned, leaning down to give Yuuri a liquor-laced kiss on the cheek before lightly patting the place where his lips had been. Yuuri laughed, shaking his head. He waited until the bartender returned and cleaned up the glass, then offered a hand to help Phichit hop down behind the bar—quite gracelessly at that; his hip slammed into one of the cabinets—before he made any move to shrug out of his coat and go have some fun of his own. He tossed the thick clothing over the bar to Phichit, who caught it and announced that he would make sure no one took it. He was here, right? He might as well take advantage of the music while he was still feeling a bit boozy.

He moved towards the dance floor in purposeful strides, feeling his body react to the song like it was made for it specifically. Leo and Guang-Hong whooped and motioned him over, thrilled to see him unwinding a bit and showing them the Yuuri Katsuki they knew and loved. This Yuuri was confident and fun, and that was precisely what made him so dangerous. He was sensual and enthralling, and you could clearly hear every note rolling off of his hips. You could hear his fingertips painting lyrics down his own neck and chest; hear the threats and the promises that came with his tongue swiping at newly dried lips.

This was the Yuuri Katsuki that had created his alcoholism, and subsequently his addiction.

Guang-Hong was the first to step up to him, straddling Yuuri’s thigh and letting his arms hang loosely at his sides as he moved his hips in fluid motions. Leo watched with a cheeky grin, thumb pressing against his bottom lip as he drank in the sight of Guang-Hong’s movements while keeping up a rhythm of his own. Yuuri moved into the other’s body, letting his arms rest loosely around his neck and inviting him closer. The younger of the two accepted his offer, hands rising to loosely grip his hips with his gaze situated between their bodies. Perspiration presented itself beneath dark bangs, threatening to have them stick to his skin as he mirrored his partner’s widening grin.

Yuuri let his head fall back, locks spilling like oil as his movements painted symphonies. The song playing through the speakers faded gracefully into a different tune with a similar beat. He could hear Leo shout praises at the DJ, singing along even as Yuuri smoothly shifted to accommodate him. Guang-Hong was still beaming, now partnerless but letting his dance live on in the form of a solo performance with hands in his hair, on his neck, the waistband of his pants. Leo continued to yell lyrics over the music, ghosting a hand down Yuuri’s clothed chest as the other hooked his thumbs into the other's belt loops to shift his hips. They responded to one another with laughter.

The trio was all harmless fun; smiling, singing, and trading dances like they had so many times before. Yuuri broke away and let the other two continue their previous antics. Apart they were light and fun. Together they were fire and gasoline, moving with a passion that only those in love could replicate. Yuuri adored their harmony; the tale they told with their hands skimming along one another. Intimacy dripped from the pads of their fingers, all heat and lustful gazes as they brazenly breathed emotion into a shared pair of lungs.

Another song shifted in to replace the last, and Yuuri was soon being lead away to the bathroom by his wrist. He followed without complaint, his mind saturated by the sweet caress of liquor and his body blissfully pliant with the aid of the song in his veins. The trio skirted around groups of all types, Guang-Hong swinging open the door to the restroom and leading the other two inside with a beckoning hand. He locked the door behind them while Leo made work of checking the stalls, and Yuuri busied himself by looking his visage over in the mirror.

The music was muffled behind the closed door, mixing with the sound of running water as a hand ran through sweat-slicked ink. Yuuri combed his hair back out of his face a bit, resigned to the fact that it was just going to cling to his forehead otherwise. It wouldn't be so inclined to stay without the presence of hair product, but he didn't mind much. He watched Leo dig into his pocket through the mirror’s reflection, heart stuttering when he pulled out a small baggy and a metal instrument. The only native to the country popped the seal, scooping out a bump and grinning Cheshire as he offered the first hit to Yuuri.

“Care to do the honors?” Leo offered, grin never once faltering.

“I really shouldn’t,” _should_ have been his immediate response, but he hesitated a moment too long and the other was already moving to place the metal scoop under his nose. His resolve melted with his toxin being so painfully close, and the alcohol in his system cooed reassurances that _one bump couldn’t hurt_ and _it’s just a little harmless fun_. He bit the bullet, pressing two fingers to a nostril and inhaling just as the other moved to accommodate him. The drip at the back of his throat was sinfully sweet, and he tipped his head back with an involuntary groan of satisfaction despite the burn commandeering the inside of his nose. He stretched his top lip over his teeth before pulling it back, scraping the soft of his mouth with pillars of ivory.

Leo offered the next hit to Guang-Hong, who held no reservations and was eagerly awaiting the euphoric rush of re-upping. They all got their kicks, Leo rubbing a touch of alabaster on his gums before moving to offer Yuuri another, more easily received dose that had him riding the high of relief before the substance itself even had time to kick in. A telling push of the locked door had Leo laughing between curses and quickly resealing the baggy. He shoved it into his pocket and gave Guang-Hong the go-ahead to unlock the door. Some heavily inebriated and hardly-phased man was leaning against the wall outside, completely unperturbed as the three of them re-entered the club.

Yuuri pressed a non-discreet finger to his nose, sniffling as Guang-Hong drug Leo back out to the dance floor. His gaze shifted over to the bar, unable to chain his grin as he caught sight of Phichit animatedly mixing a cocktail in a shaker and looking entirely too proud of himself as he poured a giggling young woman a drink. He appeared to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and Emil the Bartender appeared all the more enthused by it. Yuuri made his merry way back over to the bar to check in with his friend, feeling the effects of Leo’s kind donation start to tug at his shirt sleeves.

It was all the fun of being drunk, with an added alertness and a rush of raw joy. He could feel himself becoming more personable, the desire to have conversations about _anything, anything at all_ flooding his system. He wanted to talk, sing, dance—and _fuck_ , how could anything that made him feel so enhanced be bad?

Phichit caught sight of him meandering over, offering a wave and shouting, “Let me make you a drink! I’ve found my hidden talent.”

Yuuri responded with a laugh, tinkering and jovial as he fired back with, “How can it be hidden if you’re clearly hamming it up?” He fidgeted again with his nose, attempting to be rid of the residual stinging, and his friend gave him a knowing smirk.

The woman whose drink he poured—who was very obviously infatuated with the entire situation surrounding Phichit stealing Emil’s job, and consequently his poor heart—barked a laugh and patted the seat beside her. She waxed poetic in a charming accent he'd encountered many times before about how she’s never had a better tasting cocktail, obviously feeding into Phichit’s newest power trip, and whispered to Yuuri about how adorable his best friend was. They easily slipped into conversation, Yuuri finding out that her name was Mila and she was waiting on another woman to come join her, while the man of the hour concocted something sinful to slide to Yuuri.

The telling hiss of a whipped cream can nearly had Yuuri in stitches about how cliche Phichit was being, obviously only wanting to make drinks with ridiculous names. He swallowed his comments about _whip-its_ for the sake of their present company, instead choosing to mock the other's originality. “A Blowjob, _really_?” He regarded the other with open skepticism, raising a brow to punctuate his question.

“I thought you might need one!” Phichit teased back before sliding him the glass. Yuuri should have seen that one coming. He probably chose to make the shot for the express purpose of making that joke. “This is the closest thing you’re getting from me,” and then he winked, the asshole.

“If I end up sick, it’s because of you and your Bailey’s.” Yuuri whined, earning himself an unimpressed glare from his friend. In his defense, cream liqueur was almost never a good idea. He placed his hands up in surrender, keeping them up as he took the glass into his mouth and tipped it back to take the shot the _right_ way. Those completely encapsulated by the enigma that was this entire situation cheered him on as his tongue swiped at the excess of whipped cream decorating his top lip.

Phichit somehow found time to record him in the wake of his newly assumed duties,boisterously announcing, “Yuuri Katsuki, everyone!” to his Snapchat. 

More than a few friendly jabs were tossed back and forth before Yuuri found himself sliding out of his seat and making his way back out to the floor. Sufficiently fucked up and more than a little ready to go, he quickly located the other half of the brigade and made good on his earlier promise of more dancing. A decent amount of club-goers were aware of their group now that Phichit took it upon himself to be hilariously intriguing, and were eager to swap dances with the most movement-inclined of the entourage.

It was fun and light, and he was enjoying himself maybe a bit too much.

People filtered in and out of the club looking to get their fill, and by now their group probably would have been one of those on their way to a quieter scene if it weren’t for their newest bartender absolutely lapping up every moment of his own shenanigans. They couldn’t find it in them to complain, however. The beat was good and the people were the perfect kind of rowdy.

The music shifted into yet another song with a ridiculously similar theme around the time that Yuuri spotted his newest dance partner approaching. A man was staring at him intently; tall with dark undercut hair and prying blue eyes. Yuuri made a smooth transition away from Guang-Hong, carrying on with the sway of his hips as he noticed the newcomer approaching. He was half way to beckoning the man forward before he noticed it. The look he wore was entirely too fierce, something in it decidedly alarming enough for Yuuri’s brain to send him warning signals.

The vignette melted and his vision accommodated another man, who was loyally following the other as he practically blazed a trail to where Yuuri was currently perched. His fluid movements came to a screeching halt, something like dread sobering him momentarily as the recognition of soft brown hair and sharp features hit him. Even though his eyes were bruised, he was able to decipher the man’s identity with relative ease. _Oh._ Michele, Mickey, what the fuck _ever_ , that guy was his dealer. As in, the dealer he never made good on his advance with.

He was clearly not very happy, and neither was the other man who Yuuri had previously mistaken for wanting to dance with him.

 _Oh_.  _Oh **no**._

With eyes wide enough for the molasses hue to pour down his cheeks and a needle driven deep into each individual pore, he faintly registered that simply standing there guilt-stricken was not doing him a single favor. His heart thrummed incessantly against the walls of his constricting throat, stealing room meant to gather breath and efficiently suffocating him. He managed to swallow the muscle, forcing it back into his chest as he regained the ability to act. His body carried him in the direction of the more populated area of the floor, and he did his best to blend into the group of people who were feeling liquor pull their feet on puppet strings. Cocaine and anxiety were working together too efficiently, making a valiant effort to incite heart failure.

He turned in time with the music, attempting to assess his situation. Honey-bathed gaze fell on the pair of men maneuvering around groups of faceless club-goers. They were following him. He needed to get to the door, or so his current mental state had deciphered to be the best course of action.

But _why_ were they following him? His debt was supposedly accounted for by the frightening yet gorgeous Russian man, right? Unless it _wasn’t_ , and his entire life was a game in which he wasn’t the one holding the controller.

He did his best to dissolve into thin air, offering fleeting moments of rolling hips and gentle touches to those he passed by as he plotted his escape. He found himself wishing that the club was larger, that there were more bodies taking up space—it would be easier to inconspicuous in an area of higher concentration. The door was painfully close, and yet so was the knife he could practically feel piercing his back. His lungs burned and he felt the wave of anxious nausea, significantly dulled thanks to the substance he’d been offered in the restroom earlier that night, but present all the same. It was a blessing and a curse, hyper-awareness only serving to feed into the fear coiling around his ankles.

And _god_ , he had been _so_ fucking stupid for getting so comfortable. He knew better than to come out tonight, just like he knew he shouldn’t have gone home last week.

His hands braced the door to the club as the man checking ID’s offered a parting farewell, shoving it open and exiting without his coat into the palm of winter’s hand. He didn’t have time to be concerned with the frigid fingers closing in on him; didn’t have time to be concerned with the way ribbons of wind sliced through him like knives. As soon as his shoes collided with the pavement, he was running. He didn’t particularly care where to—not now, when he could feel hounds of hell snapping at his heels. Not now, when the world was whispering threats against the shell of his ear like secrets.

The doors to the club behind him slammed against their chains, rattling out an agonized warning. He heard shouting; something like, ‘ _Hey!_ ’ and the sound of shoes slapping pavement at an alarming rate behind him. He would run forever. This time he would run, and he would keep running until his heart burst and his chest collapsed in on itself. This time he wouldn’t look back; wouldn’t consider the ‘ _what ifs_ ’ or concern himself with logistics. It was time he learned to surf, and there was plenty of debris in the water to hoist himself up on.

Concentrated adrenaline replaced the blood in his veins, reducing the sting in his ankles each time his unsupportive shoes struck solid concrete. His glasses jostled with each sprinted step, doing little to help his already substance-tainted vision as he attempted to navigate through darkened streets with sparse areas of light. With ivory flame lapping at his lungs from its residence in the pit of his stomach, he swallowed through shallow breaths in a vain attempt to extinguish an everlasting fire.

He nearly lost his balance rounding a street corner, hoping to shake those pursuing him by weaving through the darkened streets of the town. If he could just manage to use the empty sidewalks to his advantage, maybe he could find somewhere safe to hide. They wouldn’t follow him forever, right? He turned again at the next sign, nearly slamming his shoulder into a concrete wall as he did so.

His own frantic breaths echoed through the halls of his ears, his vision blurring as the alcohol sloshing in his system threatened to make a less than charming reappearance. Winter air stung his rapidly drying throat, carving promises of an ill-timed death into soft, exposed flesh. He did his best to ignore it, to push on regardless of the burn in his thighs or the anxious bile creeping up his throat. His mouth was watering, saliva telling tales of the impending need to wretch about the time he started to succumb to vertigo.

_Not anxious nausea, actual nausea._

It was all he could do to slow his feet in time, arms encircling his midsection as he leaned over to assist with bile upheaval. He coughed, unable to catch his breath between his body’s intermittent rejection of the alcohol in his system. The sound of his stomach contents striking the pavement was even more unflattering combined with his vocalized regurgitation. He most definitely should have eaten something before lunch, loss of appetite be damned. His throat burned, and he heaved gasping breaths to accommodate for several lost moments of breathing. The back of his hand rose to wipe his mouth.

He’d managed to keep from vomiting on himself though, so that had to count for something, right?

Pounding steps slowed behind him, and fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt to forcefully yank him backward. The small seams of his shirt tore in a way that was achingly familiar as his own collar choked him, feet losing balance thanks to the violent jerk in the wrong direction. He released a strangled yelp as he stumbled back into a solid chest, arms coming unfurled from his stomach and flailing forward in search of purchase. A hand immediately grabbed his shoulder and shoved him down to the sidewalk. His glasses, already askew from running and his near-jarring halt, clamored to the ground a short distance away, narrowly escaping the tainted patch of concrete.

His shoulder had connected to the ground quite harshly, eliciting a grieved wheeze. His skull managed to avoid smashing against the pavement, though it had come dangerously close. The disorient was overwhelming, and he found himself blindsided by a fatal cocktail of warring emotion, nausea, and sudden blurred vision. He felt more than saw the two figures looming over him, their shadows casting a wave of impending doom down upon his sprawled body. It was dark here, which was making it infinitely more difficult to decipher just what was happening around him, a large part of his near-blindness attributed to the fact that he was still too drunk and very much in a panic.

“I knew it was you, Katsuki.” He heard Michele’s biting tone through his suppressed panting, but he was far too concerned with scrambling back to his feet and starting off in the other direction to think of a response.

The unforgiving toe of a boot slammed into his stomach before he had the chance to get too far off of the ground, effectively knocking him breathless. He gasped, willing the air to re-enter his lungs even though he could only muster quickened half-breaths. His bare palms dug into the frigid pavement, knees sharing a similar fate as he willed the burst of adrenaline to set him back to his feet. Another kick shocked his system, this time the flat of a shoe nailing the side of his rib cage and knocking him onto his flank.

This was it—his final resting ground. This place with mockingly barren streets he’d attempted to use to his advantage, the sole witness to his untimely desist being empty stores and lifeless sidewalks.

He prayed for a police car to pass, or for someone to walk by on their way home and call emergency services. He prayed to wake up in his bed, dripping with fresh sweat of a nightmare. The quiescence was unforgiving in its ridicule, always appearing only to laugh in his face. He would die in a silence that he so loathed, one which was worlds away from the peace he so treasured.

“I thought Viktor said he took care of it.” Michele’s gruff voice managed to break through the sound of Yuuri’s labored heaving, though he couldn’t put much merit to the words being passed between the others in his presence.

“Doesn’t look taken care of to me,” the other responded, bitterness saturating every word that poured from his mouth as if Yuuri’s existence was inherently offensive. “It would be in bad taste to let you disrespect Mickey with no consequences, don’t you think?”

And suddenly he was being addressed again. Yuuri knew the question was rhetorical, because he was definitely going to be administered punishment. He swallowed hard, nearly choking on his own panicked mouthfuls of gelid air as he did so. He willed his vision to focus, concentrating hard enough that the doubled image merged into one still blurred but intelligible picture.

The man with dark hair pulled out his phone, the unmistakable shutter-sound of a camera going off more than a little disquieting. Why was he taking pictures? He was apparently confident enough that Yuuri wouldn’t be able to escape, moving on no one’s time but his own as he snapped low-lit images of the other attempting yet again to put distance between them. He swiped through a page of applications, selecting one and holding the device to his ear moments later.

Yuuri’s observation was derailed when he noticed Mickey approaching, a hand gripping his side as he did his best to shuffle away. The other pinned Yuuri’s forearm beneath his shoe, flesh snagging in the grooves of Michele’s boot as he ground it against the pavement. Yuuri hissed through grit teeth, head hanging as he fought to rip his arm from the other’s hold. His skin scraped against the hard surface, likely tearing with his frantic jerking movements and the amount of pressure administered to keep him firmly in place. The other crouched down, knees nearly touching his chest as the centralized weight tore another agonized moan from Yuuri’s throat.

Mickey’s palm came to rest beneath Yuuri’s chin, fingernails digging into the flesh of his cheek as he pulled his face up to scrutinize. Violet eyes were accented by a blue so dark it looked black in the low light, yellow creating a halo around the bruises that encompassed his right eye and the crept into the corner of his left. Even still, his gaze was fierce, light browns drawn in concentration as his eyes raked patterns into Yuuri’s flesh. He would be surprised if he wasn’t bleeding simply from the cutting glare which attempted to permanently disfigure him.

His wrist turned to view Yuuri’s face from alternating angles, lips twitching in anger that only seemed to intensify the longer he stared. Yuuri’s breath escaped through forcibly parted lips, eyes wide as his vision swam and his heart sang ballads of a frightened, caged bird. His panic was ill-concealed, saline dripping from his eyes in unhalting streams to carve hot trails into his skin and ignite the pads of the other’s fingertips.

“Look at you,” Mickey sang, his accented tone something more than a little sardonic. “Not a scratch on that pretty face. But what about _my_ pretty face, Katsuki?”

Yuuri’s breath hitched, a hiccuped sob catching in his throat. Vision blurred thanks to the absence of his glasses and the tears that refused to desist attempted to focus more intently on the marred skin around the other’s eyes, taking in the evidence of someone else’s handiwork. Could that really be _his_ fault? But how? He hadn’t done anything to Michele, hadn’t even seen him in weeks. Had the man who broke into his apartment taken his frustration out on Michele instead?

“You fucked me, and now? Now, I fuck you.” His grip tightened, fingers pressing through the soft of Yuuri’s cheeks and against his back teeth so that the increased pressure radiated through his jaw.

He felt his phone vibrate within his pocket, catching Michele’s line of sight dip momentarily to accommodate the intrusive noise. He swallowed, willing the device currently sounding off against his thigh to be silent. Mickey opened his mouth to say something, but was halted by another voice.

“Mickey.” The other present called, causing the man in question to glance over his shoulder with a snapped, ‘ _What?_ ’

“ _I’ll_ handle it. Feltsman’s orders.” Mr. Dark Hair and Blue Eyes replied, shaking the phone in his hand as if to reinforce his argument. “And learn some fucking _respect,_ would you?”

Michele offered a warm, “ _Go to hell_ , Leroy,” under his breath, releasing Yuuri’s chin harshly with bared teeth and standing to his full height.

His arm was still trapped against the pavement, the weight of Michele’s foot shifting against his skin to elicit a choked vocalization of pain. His chest rose and fell erratically, body propped up on his elbow which must have been raw by now from digging into the sidewalk. He couldn’t find it in him speak—what could he even hope to say when breathing was a difficult enough task? He couldn’t tell where his anxious energy stopped and where the effects of substance began. His mind was swept away by currents of liquor, and snow formed a bed of lily petals to cradle him as he drowned. He might have been able to swim if he hadn’t lost sight of which way was up.

The man— _Leroy,_ as Mickey had called him—seemed to move at his own leisure. The world would stop turning if he so much as asked it to, time itself bowing to its state of nonexistence. He knelt, clothed knee finding the same stretch of sidewalk that Yuuri was currently sprawled across. Prying eyes raked over Yuuri’s features in a similar fashion to the way Michele’s had. It was an assessment, distant and unfeeling as if Yuuri was some _thing_ being inspected for damage.

These eyes, grey-blue like tinted steel, were nothing like the ones that had curiously observed him from beyond a glass of scotch a number of days ago. He could tell that much even without his glasses; he could _feel_ the difference in the way he was being scrutinized. Before, there was a level of intrigue—not quite sympathy per se, but a willingness to understand. Before, there was a level of patience that seemed utterly lost now, and he couldn’t help but long for it. The other man had been _personal_ , had been vulnerable to Yuuri’s presence, and he had only realized that now by comparison. Was that man supposed to treat him this way too? Was he meant to keep himself this distant and barred, to treat Yuuri like an assignment that was to be fulfilled and nothing more?

This gaze wasn’t cruel, not necessarily. It pierced through him like he was nothing, and he couldn’t remember a time he was made to feel more insignificant, but it wasn’t inherently malicious. Yuuri was just a number to these eyes, not a living, breathing human.

“I’m curious. What did you offer Viktor for him to let you slip away unscathed? A bribe? A service?”

Yuuri faltered at that, swallowing hard. _Viktor?_ “Who?” He managed to croak, though he was fairly certain he could piece that information together himself. _Viktor_ was the name of the man he’d first encountered—the man who wasn’t supposed to have empathized with him in the way that he had.

“The Russian debt collector.” Leroy explained, boredom present in his demeanor as if he wasn’t the embodiment of a death threat in the middle of a sleeping street. “You know, the one you gave the drug money to? Am I not being clear enough?”

Confusion crossed his features, though not because he didn’t know precisely who Leroy was talking about. Actually, it was quite the contrary. He hadn’t been able to shake the image of that statue-esque being since the night he so gracefully scared him half to death. His confusion stemmed from this fact: _he hadn’t given Viktor any drug money_. Had Viktor told them he had? Is that why they were here now, because Viktor lied and said he’d ‘ _taken care_ ’ of him? Those were the words Michele had used earlier. What exactly did being ‘ _taken care of_ ’ entail?

“ _God_ , are you so doped up that you don’t even remember?” Leroy’s voice was scathing, his exasperation clear as he twisted his fingers into the thin fabric of Yuuri’s shirt. He pulled Yuuri forward with a violent jerk, and his midsection twisted uncomfortably at the movement. All too soon, he was reminded of the searing pain emanating from his side where he’d been kicked only minutes ago.

The other’s voice dropped an octave as he spoke through grit teeth. “ _Listen_ to me, and listen well. You had to have done something, and I would _very much_ like to know what it was.”

Though in truth, Yuuri hadn’t done anything at all. If he said that, what would they do to him? Would they even believe it? He couldn’t very well admit that he hadn’t actually paid off his debt, could he?

If he said that, what would happen to Viktor?

He released a trembling exhale, eyes unable to fixate on one particular point of the other’s blurred portrait as he awaited an answer that Yuuri couldn’t give him. His hesitation was met with increasing amounts of frustration, and he could feel panic coiling its gnarled fingers around his neck. Nervous energy filled him like black smoke, congealing and dripping ink over his fluttering soul. The breaths that had slowed somewhere along the way returned to their frantic state, chest rising and falling with the force of panic.

He heard Mickey spit, a definitive ‘ _splat_ ’ sounding as saliva hit the ground. He groaned, vocalizing his impatience. “Just fucking get on with it before someone comes out here. Who gives a shit what Viktor does?”

He watched Leroy’s head tip forward, a humorless half-laugh leaving thin lips. “The one time I actually have something useful on the ‘ _prodigal son_ ’, and you can’t fucking remember? _Huh_?” One hand loosened its hold on the ebony fabric of Yuuri’s shirt, the other holding him firmly in place even as his right arm pulled back. Yuuri had enough time to flinch, eyes screwing shut just before the other’s knuckles slammed into his cheek. His head snapped back from the exposure to acute force, pain striking him a full heartbeat after the actual collision as if his flesh itself was holding its breath.

 _Oh_. So that’s what it felt like to be punched.

“Enough to jog your memory, you _fucking junkie_?” Leroy demanded, all impatience and anger, and he yanked Yuuri’s shirt collar again hard enough for his head to swing forward and back again as though his neck had lost all function.

“I don’t know!” Yuuri finally managed to rasp, all too loud and definitely not the right answer.

The other struck him again, driving rigid knuckles into the center of his face. A sensation similar to that of being underwater flooded Yuuri’s senses, an entirely different kind of pain blooming under his skin like a rose. His eyes were blown wide, light flooding syrupy vision as he completely lost what remained of his fragile equilibrium. Warmth dripped down his throat, causing him to cough up amaranth; wet and metallic. The evidence of his substance abuse painted itself in saliva-mixed strings on his chin and neck, red clinging to his lips and threatening to drip from his nose. The tissue had already been damaged by repeated exposure to cocaine, so the fact that a blunt strike to the nose could easily draw blood was utterly underwhelming.

With his head hanging limply towards the ground, mussed hair yearning to grace the concrete, he could feel the steady drip of warmth sliding down his throat. He swallowed absently, mouth falling open with a wet, agonized inhale as he blinked heavenward.

His vision came back into what little focus he could muster, shifting from the black of the night after some straining from his neck muscles to settle on Leroy, who was taking his time inspecting the damage done to his fist. Michele muttered something indecipherable around the cigarette he was struggling to light in the breeze, which seemed to catch the other’s attention. Yuuri watched as Leroy released his shirt, shoving him back onto the pavement with an open palm planted against his chest. His head bounced with the blunt force, an unsettling thud sounding upon contact. Leroy rose to his full height, regarding the other for a lingering moment before slamming the toe of his boot into his flank once more as a parting grace.

“Useless,” he hissed, stepping dangerously close to Yuuri’s head as he took off. “Fucking _useless_!” He mourned again, shouting it into the open air as though the world might offer him answers unknown.

Mickey threw out something along the lines of, ‘ _Fuck you, Katsuki’_ before ashing the cigarette he managed to light over Yuuri’s limp form. His voice sounded like it was miles away despite being so close, mingling with the sound of footsteps trailing in some direction that Yuuri couldn’t pinpoint; couldn’t be bothered to.

And it was over, just like that. He could feel the swelling of his cheek against his bottom lashes, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he stared blankly into the blackened sky. His nose was inflamed, if the fact that he was currently forced to breathe through his mouth was anything to go by, and the blood had yet to stop pooling into his throat. This distant feeling was recognizable—he was shutting down, his mind sweeping the maelstrom beyond black silk curtains so that he could continue to filter air into his lungs. Not only that, but his head was still swimming thanks to the night’s earlier festivities.

He was distantly aware that his glasses lay on the sidewalk a few feet away, and that he should probably shoot Phichit a text to let him know he’d slipped out of the club. There was a healthy chance that his friends were still there, considering he hadn’t really been away that long.

Despite everything, he wanted another _fucking drink_ ; another _fucking line_. He managed a dry laugh, which was quick to dissolve into a frustrated gasp. His life was nothing short of a car crash—a pileup on an iced-over freeway that cars seemed to keep driving into. How many more hits could he take?

He pushed himself up to sit, hands running through his hair as his knees pulled up to his chest. The back of his hand wiped at his mouth absently, glancing through bleary eyes at smeared red against flesh. He managed to hoist himself up with a grunt, hissing as pain pulled at his side. The form of his glasses was easy enough to spot in comparison to the pale grey of the sidewalk.

* * *

Leo maneuvered through the groups of people standing near the bar with Guang-Hong holding his shoulders from behind, walking up in time to see Emil pour a shot directly into Phichit’s mouth. Laughter and cheers rang from a group of bystanders perched on bar stools. Phichit, the star of the night, smiled upon sight of his friends and beckoned them over with a call of, “Buy a shot! I’ll pour it!”

Leo smiled but shook his head. “Have you seen Yuuri? We thought he might be at the bar since he’s not dancing.”

Phichit hummed. “Not for a few minutes. Maybe longer than a few.” He swallowed in an attempt to rid the foul taste of liquor from his palate, placing his palms against the bar. “He didn't come for his coat. Bathroom, maybe?”

“Nope, I checked.” Guang-Hong piped up. “It’s not like him to disappear. I think I’m going to step out and call him.”

Leo made a noise of approval, watching Phichit turn to Emil to excuse himself before making a move to hoist himself back over the bar. Emil told him he could just go around, but it was already too late and the more inebriated of the two was gracelessly throwing a leg up over the counter-top. Leo helped his friend, ignoring the whines of disapproval from those who were egging on Phichit’s shenanigans with a flippant, "Sorry, he's a friend first and a spectacle second."

The pair made their way outside, cold air stark in contrast to the warmth of the club. Guang-Hong had his phone pressed to his ear, rocking from his heels to the balls of his feet as he waited for the other line to pick up. He frowned when Yuuri’s voicemail played, looking down at his phone with drawn brows.

“Nothing?” Phichit asked, already pulling out his phone to give it a try. He expertly maneuvered through his contacts to Yuuri’s name, thumb pressing the ' _call_ ’ button just as Guang-Hong confirmed his suspicions with a shake of his head.

He pressed the device to his ear, covering the other with a hand to drown out the muffled club music behind him. It rang through to voicemail, which might not have been so unusual if they weren’t out partying. Yuuri was adventurous when drunk, but he wasn’t one to disappear. What’s more, he was always easy to find because he drew in crowds. This was alarming.

“Maybe he left with someone?” Leo suggested, though his own skepticism was woven into his words.

Phichit shook his head, thoughtful. “He tries not to do that anymore. Besides, he would’ve said something, or at least grabbed his jacket.”

Guang-Hong bit his lip, looking up and down the sidewalk like it held all the answers. “I’m going to ask the guy up front if he saw him leave,” he decided, pulling up his photo album for a picture of Yuuri that might be most recognizable. He moved to disappear back into the club, and Leo decided to follow him.

Phichit stayed outside, clicking the ‘ _call_ ’ button again in hopes that Yuuri might pick up this time. He couldn’t imagine that someone nabbed him; one of the club-goers would’ve noticed, so if he left, he had to have done it of his own volition. Maybe something urgent came up and he was just reading too much into it.

 _God_ , he hoped he was reading too much into it.

* * *

Winter's breath coiled under the shield that his ebbing adrenaline had formed, reminding him that his coat was still behind the bar with his friend. His feet struck the pavement something repetitive, being the only sound to fill the achingly silent streets. He didn't remember running this far. It felt like a matter of seconds between the moment he exited the club doors and the second his shoulder slammed into the pavement. Even then, the following events seemed to have happened so quickly. Had he been gone long? Had anyone noticed his sudden disappearance?

There were smatterings of pain sewn into different parts of his body; his right arm, left cheek, his nose, his ribs. His glasses rubbed uncomfortably against his swollen skin, a hand pressed to his nose to catch amaranth on its path to his mouth. He wondered if he should go back to the club for his coat, being that the weather was wreaking havoc on his frankly under-dressed being. If he did go back, he would have to forge an explanation as to why he looked like he'd been hit by a car, which he hadn't put much thought into until just now. Perhaps he should just say he _was_ hit by a car.

Either way, his friends were bound to notice his disappearance eventually. He should just go to his apartment, say his sister called about something catastrophic at home and that he had to excuse himself to recuperate. Could he even go to his apartment? Would Mickey and Leroy be waiting there to finish what they started? The thought of fleeing this god-forsaken city struck him again, and this time it was sticking. He'd ignored it the time before, and look where he was now—bloodied and likely bruised thanks to his unmanageable addiction. 

Even still, he couldn't very well wander into the night coat-less. At least now he had money to take the Greyhound. He could go somewhere he might not need a coat at all; Florida or Southern California. The beach would be a nice reminder of home. Yeah, either of those would do just fine. 

He rounded a corner he specifically remembered turning at, eyes focused on his feet with each step thudding against the pavement. He thought of the card in his wallet, how it had enough money on it left over from what would have been his rent fund to get him a bus ticket and some food, maybe even a few nights in a cheap motel room. He could figure things out when he got to his destination—get another job and work until he had enough for a deposit and the first month's rent. This could work out. He could live.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps fast approaching, entire body going rigid in response as his head snapped up to see someone full-on sprinting in his direction. His immediate thought was to run, because _god knew_ his heart couldn't take another bout like the last, but he completely blanked when the face of the figure presented itself to be none other than his best friend, who was calling his name rather frantically. Yuuri's knees could've given out, though from relief, dread, or exhaustion he couldn't be sure. 

"Yuuri!" Phichit yelled again, and the man in question elected to simply stand and wait for the world itself to open its jaws and swallow him whole. 

The other all but skidded to a halt in front of him, the initial painting of relief across his face melting into some mangled mixture of anger and confusion upon drinking in Yuuri's disheveled—to be put gracefully—appearance. "Yuuri, what the hell happened? Jesus Christ, you're _bleeding_."

"I, uh, got hit by a car."  _Nailed it._

Phichit batted Yuuri's now blood-dripping hand from his face, hands resting gently on either side of his visage as if it might shatter if he applied greater pressure. "A car shaped like a fist?" He squawked, incredulity sewn into the fibers of his words. He attempted to give the other a glare, but his concern was entirely too evident. "Is your nose broken? _God_ , you can already see where you're starting to bruise."

Yuuri simply sighed, which was apparently not the correct answer judging by the disapproving look he was being awarded. "Okay, _fine_. Someone hit me in the face." He attempted to amend, and quite lamely at that.

Phichit snorted, though he wasn't very amused. "Yeah, that translated. Who hit you? More importantly, _why_ did they hit you?"

He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew that. He chose to persevere rather than throw in the towel. "Some guy thought I was dancing too closely with his girlfriend." 

" _Yuuri_." His friend hissed, beginning to lose his patience. "First you quit your job at the office, then you keep thinning until you're practically withering away, and now you just _disappear_ for, like, thirty minutes and come back looking like you lost a bar fight. You think I don't know when something's going on, but I notice way more than you think I do." He was beginning to get upset, which might have been more daunting if Yuuri hadn't just been confronted by angry drug-dealers. Phichit took a calming breath, stepping back to assess the other behind crossed arms. "Please Yuuri, and I'm really begging here, just tell me what's going on. Let me help."

Yuuri released an exhausted breath, hand reaching to run through his hair as he took a moment to orient himself. "Okay, Phichit."

"And another thing, who is ever too busy to get their phone fixed, and—wait, really?"

He managed a dry laugh, coming out as more of a rasp thanks to the winter's effects on his throat. "Yes, really. Just... Can we go to your place?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Suck, Bang, and Blow is a cocktail, and I'm sure we all know what a Blowjob shot is.  
> *Whip-its = a way of getting high using canisters of compressed nitrous oxide or whipped cream cans. Don't do this.
> 
> We now interrupt this fanservice (is it fanservice?) for a healthy serving of "oh, shit." You didn't think Yuuri was going to get off without a couple scrapes and bruises, did you? ;)
> 
> Poor baby, doesn't Yuuri know that trying to run while heavily intoxicated has negative repercussions? Sorry for so many mentions of nausea and vomiting, but anxiety and alcohol will do that to you. I'm here to provide the less than charming details that we all try to forget. They're gross, but they happen. 
> 
> Ugh, this was a hard chapter to write because of the initial summary-type writing before Yuuri got to the club. I don't typically write like that, as you probably gathered from the first two chapters, so I'm a bit underwhelmed by my own performance on this chapter. 
> 
> I do sincerely apologize for Viktor's lack of involvement with this chapter, especially if anyone was expecting for the two nerds to run into one another at the club, or for Viktor to be the knight in shining armor. I didn't want to beat that dead horse. The drink names were cliche enough for me. Plus, we're just getting started. Do not worry dears, he will be back next chapter. Also, no, Phichit and Emil will not be romantically involved again after this chapter. I just had the thought of Phichit climbing over the bar in my head and couldn't shake it. Sorry, Emil. 
> 
> Who loves the party boys? I know I do.
> 
> Also, please do let me know if anyone has any objections to some hints of Chris/Phichit? To my knowledge, it's not a very popular ship, and while I love it, I'd rather leave it out if it's going to be a huge turn-off or distraction to future chapters (faaar in the future, mind you).
> 
> So why would JJ be so concerned with Viktor's business anyhow? Sorry for Major Dick!JJ, he has his own motivations. Besides, a job is a job, no?


	4. He's Human, Like Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris knows what's up, and emotions are flying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this chapter while I was stuck on the previous one under the delusion that it would be an easy chapter to write. I was wrong. Early update though?
> 
> Also, all of my stuff is unbeta'd. I usually read through to edit a few times and read through again once I publish a chapter, but I'd appreciate it if you would mention any mistakes you find so that I may fix them promptly. Much love.
> 
> Chapter warnings: References of drug use not previously mentioned, implied health issues, and definitely some unhealthy pining.

Warm breath filtered into open air, the only proof that it ever existed carried away by the rolling breeze in a wisp of grey. His gaze fixated on the messages from his friend, picking apart each letter and comparing them to the Cyrillic characters of his first language as a way to pass the time. Really, formulating a response would be a better use of his time, but he’d given up trying after a few minutes of his usual wit failing to conjure something worth typing.

 

**From: Chris**

_I'm beginning to think you’d rather me tell you what you want to hear than have me give actual opinions  
_ _You’ll just do whatever you want, like you always have  
_ _But for what it’s worth, there’s no harm in trying  
_ _Or that would be the case, if you weren’t in this profession_  
_Which you are, by the way_

 

How was it that he could hear Christophe’s sarcasm through his texts these days? While he appreciated his friend’s input more than he may ever let on, he was also not a child. He’s been in ‘ _this profession_ ’ for twelve full years, he would have you know, and seven of those years were in his current position overseeing activity in the United States. He’d rather like to think he knows the ins and outs of the trade, considering he’s yet to make a misstep.

Unless, of course, you consider paying off a debt for a man with eyes like the ones that had been haunting him for at least a year and leaving it with an aloof, _‘It’s been taken care of. You’re welcome.’_ a misstep.

He sighed, shifting his weight to the foot opposite the one he’d been leaning on. His back was pressed against a brick wall, one arm crossed beneath his chest while the other was situated in a position that allowed him to scowl at his phone. His coat was probably thicker than the weather actually required, but it was a nice coat and he thought it suited him just fine. The itch in his gloved fingers was a byproduct of simply standing and waiting. That’s not to say that patience didn’t come to him in gobs when it actually counted, because it did. Time spent idle when he set his mind to something simply wasn’t favorable, that was all.

He removed the cloth from one of his hands, index and middle fingers tapping away at his screen as he held the device and his limp glove firmly in his other hand.

 

**To: Chris**

_You clearly have high opinions of me today  
_ _Would it kill you to put some faith in me from time to time?_

 

**From: Chris**

_On the contrary  
_ _If I didn’t have faith in you, I’d delete your number and file for a restraining order_

 

He snorted at that and the kissy face that followed, appreciating the smattering of amusement in their otherwise sincere dialogue. A finger lifted to move sweeping silver from his vision, though it was a fruitless effort on his part. His bangs fell back into their place draped over an eye of polished turquoise, and he knew he was beginning to fidget as the minutes crawled by.

 

**To: Chris**

_Oh, but you wouldn’t dare  
_ _You love me far too much_

**From: Chris**

_That I do  
_ _But even you must know by now that you can be reckless at times_

 

 _Reckless_? He scoffed aloud at the message, defensive statements piling up on one another as he attempted to denounce the thought that he could be _reckless_. Sure, sometimes he threw himself into situations without assessing the _precise_ amount of danger associated, but that was because he was practically danger incarnate. He was a living, breathing nightmare; a champion of his own realm. Thoughts of pain, thoughts of death—those things weren’t enough to intimidate him anymore. Nothing could be taken from him, because he had _nothing_.

 

**To: Chris**

_Am I still considered reckless if I don’t have anything to lose?_

 

The definitive ‘ _c_ _lick_ ’ of a lock caused him to shift, glancing away from his phone to peer up at the door to the building he was perched on swinging inward. Two employees filtered out, laughing about something that had happened with a customer during their shift. They didn’t pay him much mind, probably too focused on locating their respective vehicles to care about loiterers.

“ _Are you sure you don’t want a ride, Yuuri? It’s pretty cold tonight._ ”

His heart stuttered at the mention of Yuuri’s name, hearing a muffled, ‘ _No, thanks’_ from inside the building before spotting his current target walking through the door. Yuuri didn’t notice Viktor right away being that his head was ducked and he was seemingly focused on the other man, who had flowing hair that almost made Viktor miss his own, as he turned to lock up. Viktor pushed away from the wall, allowing the other two in his presence to wrap up their pleasantries before he made any moves to interject. He was polite like that, after all.

Yuuri turned his way, taking a full step before his eyes doubled and he paused near about completely. “Yuu—” Viktor felt ice replace the blood in his veins, any previous excitement he felt fully dissipating. The smile he had adorned originally froze along with his words. It took him a moment to place a name to what he was currently feeling, but he ultimately decided on _anger._ This was rage, raw and scathing, and it slaughtered the very breath in his lungs. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt it so radically; couldn’t remember the last time he’d wanted to resort to violence out of instinct and not because he was being made to.

Those eyes he’d praised, syrup-dressed citrine, were outlined by blackened violet, and that was absolutely _unforgivable_. What’s more, his cheeks held fainter remnants of bruises suspiciously befitting of finger tips. He might have been more inclined to demand to know just _who_ was responsible for marring such beauty—and quite possibly pay them a visit—if he hadn’t eventually become aware of the fact that his righteous fury had painted itself across his entire being, and that Yuuri hadn’t moved a muscle in the short moments he’d been regarding him.

“Yuuri—” He exhaled, though his voice was entirely too reminiscent of a growl with the veil of red still staining his sight.

The other didn’t dare to breathe, that same panic and reverence sewn into the strings of his eyes as it had been the first night, but it felt so out of place in the current setting. Viktor heard the stutter of an engine coming to life around the corner, and Yuuri must have heard it too if the full step he took backward was anything to go by. Viktor accommodated for the loss, doing his best to mask his emotions before attempting to speak again. He needed to be calm now, lest he scare the man who had obviously already been put through entirely too much hell for Viktor’s tastes.

“Yuuri,” he tried again, so soft it was almost silent thanks to his efforts to contain such relentless feeling. “ _Who did that_?”  

The other regarded him with confusion in the raw, brows drawing behind blue-rimmed glasses as his breath exited him in a puff of grey. “What?” He managed to respond, voice breathless and shaking, and Viktor liked to have kicked himself for coming off so intimidating. This certainly wasn’t how he’d planned for this to go.

Viktor chanced another step forward, feeling as though he might be able to calm the other if he could just get close enough, but he hesitated in his advances when Yuuri flinched. He supposed he deserved as much, being that Yuuri only knew him as the man who broke into his house with the intent to hurt him, only to end up slipping money into his mailbox days later, and now he was practically emanating fury for reasons still left unexplained.

However, he knew a lot about Yuuri; where he worked, his phone number, his home address, full name, age, the fact that he was here on a work visa but was in the process of becoming a citizen of the United States. Hell, he’d even been able to figure out the bar he frequented thanks to his affiliate’s social media (people were rather indiscreet these days—it made them so easy to find). These were things he’d looked into with the express purpose of doing his job, of course, but they were things he’d picked up on nonetheless. And that made it easy to forget precisely how little Yuuri knew about him.

“Your _eyes_.” He honestly hadn’t _meant_ to let anger infiltrate his tone again, but it seemed he was having a difficult time putting chains on this all but forgotten emotion.

Sure, he’d encountered more than his fair share of disrespect over the past few years in his profession, but that was manageable. He practically lived to frighten people; he was viewed as a reaper-like figure, someone who promised death just by existing in a room with a person who owed him something. But he’d become numb to the backlash, to the things people said to and about him. He’d grown to expect it. Most of the insults spat along with blood from the mouths of heathens who had let their lives get out of control and chose to blame _him_ for it, like he was the one shoving straws up their noses, were rather unoriginal anyhow. Anger didn’t come to him easily now like it had when he was a sixteen year old dealer functioning in Saint Petersburg.

 _This_ though—this felt personal. Someone had taken something priceless and tainted it, and that was as infuriating as it was inexcusable. A voice at the back of his mind was eager to remind him that he was reacting a bit too fiercely to the situation, being that he had absolutely no claim over those eyes whatsoever, but he hushed it. Now was not the time to be impartial. Now was the time to be mad.

Apparently, his clarification wasn’t much of a clarification at all, considering it only proved to confuse Yuuri even more, and the younger of the two took another unsure stride in the complete wrong direction. “I fell and hit my nose.”

Viktor was pretty positive he wasn’t wearing a flashing neon sign with the word, ‘ _i_ _diot_ ’ and an arrow pointed at his face, but he was also pretty positive that _that_ was the rage talking, so he swallowed that comment in favor of something more tasteful. “You have bruises on your cheek.”

“Rocks—on the ground.” he amended with care, though his tone was unconvincing. Viktor was distantly aware that he was being eyed like a ticking time bomb. “There were, uh, rocks on the ground... where I fell.”

Viktor took a deep breath, willing the previously mentioned patience to override his frustration. It might have been comical, _cute_ even, if he wasn’t on the brink of scouring the Earth for the person who’d desecrated Yuuri’s visage. “Rocks shaped like fingers?”

A pause. “ _Fine,_ ” the other all but hissed, similar to the tone he’d taken during their first encounter before giving into Viktor’s prodding. He foolishly thought that Yuuri was about to give him something of substance. “Someone was grabbing my friend at the bar. I told them to leave him alone, they were drunk and hostile, so they grabbed me and then hit me.” Yuuri’s eyes shifted as he spoke, looking beside the other rather than at him. “It’s no big deal, and it doesn’t concern you. Okay?”

Viktor knew lies—twelve years involved in drug negotiations will do that to you. Practically everyone he had the pleasure of dealing with was a liar and a thief. Something about the way he said that last part was particularly striking. His gaze narrowed almost imperceptibly, and he found himself minding his words again. When was the last time he’d hesitated to speak his mind to this degree?

“What an odd thing to say,” came his smooth counter, voice a speculative hum coated with confectionery as trained eyes scanned for a reaction. “I never said it had anything to do with _me_.”

Yuuri stiffened, shoulders rising beneath his coat. _There it was._ “Well, yeah—why would it?” He retorted, though he was beginning to falter, and Viktor leapt at the advantage he’d been given. When presented an exposed thread, he would tug until the entire spool unraveled.

“That’s a _very_ good question, Yuuri. Why _would_ it have anything to do with me?” His arms crossed over his chest, phone and glove still in hand. He ignored the vibration that was likely Chris responding to his earlier message with something wit-dripping and counterintuitive.

“I—” Yuuri started, then stopped, likely thinking better of whatever he might have said on reflex. “I should get going. There’s someone waiting for me.”

“Let me walk you.” The other replied a bit too quickly, and he could’ve sworn Yuuri’s face drained of color. “It’s dangerous to walk alone at night.”

“Is it dangerous to live in an apartment too?” He quipped, and he successfully caught Viktor off-guard despite his comment holding merit. That was apparently all the opening he needed to reanimate, walking in the other’s direction with the intent to skirt past him and continue on his path unencumbered.

So, _maybe_ he hadn’t been expecting to get called out for being, you know, precisely who he was. In his defense, most people would react the same to comments about their character. Bleeding sapphires watched the other veer around him and continue on without breath of letting up. He made a mental note with the word ‘ _surprising_ ’, adding that to the growing pros column at his own expense. It would seem he had met his match in the department of quick wit.

That didn’t change the fact that he was missing the answer to a very pressing question, however. Viktor slipped his phone into his coat pocket and set to work redressing his hand as his feet found the will to move again. “So, about your bruises having something to do with _me_ , specifically.”

“I’m going to call the police if you follow me.” He muttered under his breath, only just audible enough to catch. Yuuri’s hands were shoved into his pockets as though he was trying to make himself more compact. Did he notice that he was doing it, or was it entirely subconscious? Viktor decided he would very much like to dissect Yuuri’s body language—what did it mean when he flicked his bangs out of his face with a gentle toss of his head, or when he breathed in deeply through his nose only to exhale slowly?

Viktor snorted at the threat, amused. “And tell them what? That a scary Russian man won’t leave you alone about your black eyes?”

“Precisely.” He countered dryly, and while Viktor really was enjoying the banter, he was also acutely aware of the fact that he was being denied information he thought to be quite time sensitive.

Viktor was a man who was used to getting what he wanted, and promptly.

He jogged to fall into step beside Yuuri, allowing a foot or two of space for the other’s comfort. It wasn’t like he didn’t notice that his presence still unnerved the other, as it did with most, so he did his best to be understanding and allot the other personal space. Ironic, really, because he usually had no concept of such a thing. Look at him, being courteous. “Why are you avoiding my question, Yuuri?”

“What gives you the right to an answer, _Viktor_?” He mimicked, tone almost scathing in its open mockery of Viktor’s apparent need to utilize his name when conversing with him. The tone was not, however, what brought Viktor to a full, screeching halt.

_Oh._

The other continued to walk, seemingly unaware of his own slip and unphased by the other’s sudden stop. Viktor stood firmly in his pause, feet rooting themselves to the pavement in some odd display of sincerity. “ _Yuuri,_ ” Viktor hissed, tone gravely serious.

Yuuri paused, turning to face the other with an exasperated, “ _What?_ ”

“You said my name.” His voice remained solemn, spring water drenching the man in his presence in blatant scrutiny. He watched haloed eyes widen with realization, the dread overwhelming the other’s features serving to confirm his stacking suspicions. This wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do **at all.** “ _I_ _never gave you my name._ ”

Something like apprehension slipped in to mingle with re-flaring anger, though his rage was not directed at Yuuri, and he wished for his latest realization not to be true. Yuuri knew his name, which meant _someone_ had to have given it to him. _Someone_ who had to be affiliated with his business, and _someone_ who was probably, almost definitely, responsible for the damage to Yuuri’s skin. Dread was winning the battle currently, sweeping over him in ways he had never known it could, because Yuuri was _hurt_ and it was _Viktor’s_ fault.

Yuuri took a step back, which Viktor had come to realize meant he was uncomfortable. “ _What_? Yes, you did.”

“No, I _didn’t_.” Firm, unmoving. He knew for a fact that he hadn’t mentioned his name, not on the night they met for obvious reasons, and not when he wrote the letter for the sake of preserving his identity. He knew he was a dangerous man, and although he was here now, seeking Yuuri out for the simple fact that he couldn’t get him out of his head and wanted to be able to do so, Yuuri mentioning Viktor by name so freely could get him into a much larger mess than he was already in.

Well, his original intentions seemed to have been blown to hell anyhow, hadn’t they? In truth, things had been _far_ too personal from the start.

“Yes, you did!” And he was sputtering; nervous and feeling trapped. His gaze veered to the side the same way it had earlier when he tried to feed Viktor some bullshit excuse about being in a bar fight. “On the card, you wrote—”

“V.” Viktor filled in for him, taking a step forward. “Yuuri, tell me again how those bruises have _nothing_ to do with me.”

Another full step back. “I—” He cut himself off, eyes shifting around the streets in search of something; an exit, perhaps? Would he run? Did he think that Viktor, too, would inflict harm on him?

His heart clenched at the thought of Yuuri thinking he was like the others; that he’d set him up to string him along as some greater form of punishment. He had to know how much he knew—more importantly, he had to know how much the ones who had come for him knew. He had separate suspicions for who was responsible, and they _both_ may be in far over their heads if Yuuri let slip to the wrong person that he’d never actually paid off his debt, or that Viktor had given him money in the only way he knew how to make the other’s life a little easier.

And that’s when it hit him—Chris’s words from earlier. _Reckless_. He felt it now, like it was tattooed over every inch of his skin, because being _reckless_ may not have had anything to do with his own fate at all. He would prefer to be swallowing his own teeth. The knowledge that his rash course of action had affected someone other than himself was much, _much_ more painful than a metal bat to the mouth.

Yuuri wasn’t a piece of artwork for Viktor to observe. Yuuri was human.

The silence was much more frigid than the weather, a biting reassurance to his theories all its own, and Viktor was waiting with all of the patience he could muster for the right answer to finally, _finally_ leave Yuuri’s lips. He had questions, but those could wait. One step at a time, he assured himself.

“Not here.” Yuuri whispered after a stretch of silence, seemingly resigned to the fact that he wasn’t going to be getting rid of Viktor so easily. “I’ll tell you, okay? But not here.”

“Where?” He responded immediately, doing his best to suppress his urgency. He took two steps forward, and this time Yuuri didn’t back away.

“Follow me.”

 

**From: Chris**

_Are you sure you have nothing to lose?_

 

* * *

Yuuri unlocked the door to his apartment for the first time in days, loathing the way his hands rattled with the force of his fresh and indefinite sobriety. After coming clean to Phichit—and consequently Phichit’s roommates, who had come home about half-way through the tale of _why_ Yuuri’s life was in its current state of misery (they’d earlier taken Guang-Hong’s car from the club to Yuuri’s apartment in search of him while Phichit stayed behind in case he came back)—he had more or less been begged to stay with them while he rode out his withdrawals.

Phichit, still hopelessly drunk at the time, had started sobbing near the end of the spiel and tried with all of his might to convince Yuuri to go to rehabilitation. Yuuri had vehemently denied for a number of reasons, most of them financial, to which his friends had offered to help in any way they possibly could with the fees, but like it or not, he still had to work and pay his rent. He was still anchoring quite firmly to his, “No.” The next morning, when they were both dreadfully sober, Phichit attempted again to get him to reconsider or at least enroll in AA, NA or both, to no avail. Yuuri wanted to carry on his life with a shred of normalcy rather than be coddled for something he’d done to himself.

Once Yuuri made it clear that he was not going to seek professional help, Phichit, Leo, and Guang-Hong cleared their apartment of anything that may be a temptation and asked him to stay with them. Being that he wasn’t entirely keen on returning to his own place of residence in light of recent events, he had agreed. As much as he loathed the idea of needing to be supervised, it was probably in his best interest to have a second opinion on his decisions for a while. The thought alone was grimace inspiring, but he would manage.

He appreciated their efforts and lack of judgement, and how accepting they’d been of his apology for all of the lies. Their seemingly boundless understanding and desire to help almost made him feel a bit like an idiot for not talking about things sooner, and he was quick to shoo away their guilt for enabling his habits so recently. It wasn’t like they could’ve known—Yuuri had always been very private with his struggles, and before that night they were under the impression that he was having the same harmless fun that they were. Emotions were raw nerve endings, and some part of him felt better regardless of the fact that he'd known the hours of peace were limited before withdrawals began to seize him again, this time with no holds barred.

He _might_ have purposefully left out a detail or two in his story, like a description of Viktor or anything at all that might have been identifying, and he _might_ have also neglected to mention the letter he slipped in Yuuri’s mailbox. Oops. That wasn’t a big deal, _right_?

Though seeing him again had been jarring, and it felt very much like a step in the complete wrong direction. Especially now, in these first few days fully clean, when his soul still whispered sweet nothings about how _a little bit couldn’t hurt_ and _you know you want it,_ and his body ached at the prospect of losing the poison it was so dependent on.

He shoved the door open and lead the way inside, even pausing to flick on the lights for the first time in quite a while. He tried to ignore the persistent gaze melting his back like he himself was composed entirely of candle wax, instead focusing his energy on carefully assessing his living and dining spaces for unplanned occupancy. He’d become quite paranoid since Viktor’s initial visit, and it had only seemed to multiply after the incident with Leroy and Michele a few days prior. Not to mention, his current state made him _a touch_ more sensitive to said paranoia.

But how could he _not_ be paranoid when he’d only suffered through scrapes and bruises throughout this entire ordeal? Viktor seemed to have found him easily enough, and it wasn’t like the second wave could have so easily dismembered him out in the open like they were. It was probably enough of a risk to chase him out into the streets to begin with, and all things considered, he knew he’d gotten off easy; no broken bones or bullet holes, and he still had all of his teeth. He had what _might_ have been a bruised rib or two—he couldn’t be certain given that he’d foregone a visit to the doctor (much to Phichit’s chagrin)—but he was also fairly certain his nose hadn’t broken, despite the severity of his bruising and the initial swelling of his face.

Things certainly didn’t feel _over,_ and the man entering his apartment was living proof of that.

Yuuri kicked off his shoes, purposefully avoiding looking at the other who had loyally followed him with bated breath as he made his way to the kitchen for an unfulfilling glass of water. He did his best to ignore the siren which had manifested in the form of a near-full bottle of vodka on the bottom shelf of his fridge even as it sung sweet lullabies and made _very_ convincing promises to ease his suffering.

He instead pulled open a cabinet, absently grabbing for a glass and placing it in the sink beneath the faucet. A hand turned the knob, letting the water run as he pulled out his phone and did his best to text Phichit with trembling fingers that the store was especially messy that night and he would be home late. He made note of the fact that he was lying again, which is something he had been specifically requested not to do, and also that lying meant he was doing something more than just a little stupid.

 

**From: Phich**

_Okay, I’ll wait up for you. Make good decisions.  
_ _If you need a ride home, I’ll come get you. No questions asked._

 

His eyes flicked from the screen in his unsteady hands to the fridge of their own accord, teeth clamping on the soft of his cheek.

He was beginning to think himself a bit of a masochist. What other explanation was there for his self-destructive tendencies? His hands were blistered, bleeding, and _raw_ from continually playing with fire—maybe he craved to be burned, and maybe that’s why he was weighing what harm could be caused by simply resting his lips against the mouth of the bottle without _actually_ taking a drink. Maybe that’s why he always found his hand reaching for the door to the liquor store on his way home from work only to remember where he was and quite literally pry his own fingers from the handle. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called the police instead of bringing Viktor to his apartment.

Maybe some part of his soul was drawn to the mere fact that Viktor was _dangerous_ , and maybe that’s why he hadn’t been able to push his low-lit godlike portrait from his mind since he first laid eyes on it. If he didn’t love pain so much, why would he continually seek it out?

 _Shit_ , the glass was overflowing.

Vocalizing his exasperation at the fact that his life could only seem to retain peace for a mere handful of days at a time before it started slipping back into the chaotic void, he turned off the water and shoved his phone back in his pocket. Viktor had, surprisingly, remained silent during the time it took for Yuuri to mentally admonish himself for being _completely and totally hopeless_ , likely waiting for him to start explaining things. That was why they’d come here, right? Not for him to assess his current standing with the plethora of temptations that so plagued him.

He lifted the glass to his lips, willing the water to calm him in ways he knew all too well that it couldn’t, before turning to lean against the sink. He managed to suppress his grimace when he allowed too much distance between himself and the counter, the harsh connection of his back with the jutting edge shooting a pain up through his ribs. Ignoring the agony each time he coughed or twisted his body just so was easier than accepting that there might have been more damage done to him than originally thought. After all, there wasn't much that could be done for a bruised (or fractured) rib besides taking pain relievers, and that was an entirely new can of worms best left unopened in his current state of _need_.

Panels of molasses-dipped hickory creaked back open from when they’d screwed themselves shut in an attempt not to express weakness. He opened his mouth to speak, but was halted prematurely by the absolute _vision_ he was presented with. Viktor, in all of his finally lit glory, was even more gorgeous than Yuuri could have ever imagined. He _might_ have choked. It was unfair, if he were to be completely honest, and he found himself wishing he’d met him at a club rather than off-guard in his own home.

Comparing Viktor to a drug might have been a fatal mistake.

Viktor tipped his head, cloudy curtain falling away to reveal the other, equally as astonishing, sapphire previously sheathed by his hair. And it was cute, which was _just fucking great_ because Yuuri wasn’t _already_ having a hard enough time wrapping his head around the man’s ridiculously alluring visage. He spoke, and Yuuri’s eyes, the damned traitors, fell to accommodate his lips. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathed something shaky, and he wondered when his voice had decided to betray him as well, because the next words out of his mouth were, “It’s just the first time I’ve seen you in the light, is all.”

_A fatal mistake indeed._

Perhaps Viktor was not a god at all. Perhaps he was a demon, and that's why Yuuri had been possessed to say such an embarrassing thing. 

The other responded with a smirk all too licentious for Yuuri’s liking, and he got caught on the corner of his mouth that was upturned. “Do you _like_ seeing me this way?” And it was a purr, accented and concretely suggestive, and ultimately not fair. _Oh_ , Viktor had to _know_ he was this enticing. The Devil himself, and Yuuri had invited him into his home.

He wondered what it would be like to lick that cheap, shitty vodka in his fridge from Viktor's silver-laced tongue. He wondered what it would be like to take a line of off a wrist comprised of porcelain. Would the breath in his lungs be a better high than anything Yuuri had ever experienced? He wondered how many steps forward he could take before he couldn’t stop himself, and the way Viktor was looking at him now was daring him to find that brink.

How would it feel to come completely unraveled by way of Viktor's hands, his mouth, his— _?_

But now was not the time to be ensnared by devilish charm, nor was it the time for something like arousal to hook itself into his coat pockets. He swallowed, then cleared his throat, and when that didn’t work, he took a grounding sip of his water. He ignored the heat beneath the surface of his face, ultimately deciding that the best course of action would be to deflect his comment entirely. He’d learned the hard way that the opposing was quick to chip at Yuuri’s fractured composure, and so he would do his best to pour plaster into those cracks before they ever presented themselves. Now, if he could just remember where that plaster happened to be...

“I got punched in the face,” he started, and he decided it was a good place to begin because it brought him back to the reality that he still had questions about how much Viktor, regardless of how pretty, had to do with the fact that he’d been _punched in the face_ (and kicked a few good times, and thrown on the ground, but Viktor didn’t need to know that).

The other seemed to remember his reason for coming quite instantly, and the way his face suddenly morphed into a much more serious expression might have been comical in any other scenario. “Please, proceed.” He urged, though his voice had an underlying flustered flare to it.

 _God_ , he wanted to be the one to break Viktor’s composure.

“I was at a club with friends,” he explained, taking his sweet, _sweet_ time with the storytelling because he _knew_ Viktor’s question was burning at the tip of his tongue and now it seemed he’d been invited to play a game, “and I noticed Michele—uh, Mickey—with some guy I’d never seen.”

And it would take a very, _very_ long time for him to forget that face now. 

He paused, taking another sip of water as if that would quench the burning liquor-lust he felt even recalling the worst of his inebriated experiences. “I noticed they were following me, so I left and, uh, starting running. I was pretty drunk, so I ended up throwing up, and then I got punched a couple times.”

He’d conveniently left out the most important details, like _why_ they felt so inclined to punch him upon the sight of his unmarred face, and so Viktor’s follow-up question came as no surprise. “And they mentioned _my_ name?”

It was strange to Yuuri that Viktor seemed to be so caught up on that detail. Why shouldn’t they have? Yuuri knew Michele’s name, and he’d learned Leroy’s in a matter of breaths, so why was it that ‘ _Viktor_ ’ was such a loaded gun? Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Yuuri may have felt inclined to contact the police, but surely the other knew that doing so would be entirely too risky on Yuuri’s behalf. Believe it or not, he actually had no intent to be beheaded by what he could assume to be a gang of angry drug dealers for selling out one of their own (or three of their own, realistically).

Despite his burning curiosity, he nodded in confirmation.

“In what context?” He prodded after a moment’s pause, likely giving Yuuri the chance to elaborate before realizing that he wasn’t going to.

And it felt like an odd question. _The context that you were the one who broke into my apartment_ was his first thought, but he decided to hold his tongue. Was there any other context that could have applied?

“You were supposed to _take care_ of it.” He answered simply, though that wasn’t necessarily the most helpful detail. He knew what Viktor wanted—Viktor wanted _everything_. He was probably wrong to make him wait, to draw this out more than what was actually necessary, but he was testing the waters. He wanted to see what he would receive in return. “I guess that means you were supposed to have been the one to punch me. Actually, I don’t really know what it means at all.”

He observed the other carefully, and somehow it felt like Yuuri was the one with control over the conversation. He _was_ the one with all the answers, after all. Viktor’s expression changed, breaking the mold of serious for a fleeting moment to reveal something akin to the dread he’d worn when they first began to discuss how Yuuri had come across Viktor’s name. Something like satisfaction ran its fingers along his skin; he _liked_ seeing the other wear something less professional, less stoic. It was empowering from this distance.

“Who was the other one? Did you happen to catch his name?” Viktor was pointedly ignoring Yuuri’s implied question, which was a bit unsettling. He probably shouldn’t _want_ confirmation that the other currently standing alone with him in his apartment had been assigned to rough him up, or worse.

“Mickey called him ‘ _Leroy_ ’.” Yuuri amended, shifting to find a comfortable spot against the sink he was still leaning against. Unfortunately, doing so forced him to twist his midsection, and he bit his lip to suppress another wince. An arm snaked its way up to cradle his chest, hand hooking around his ribs.

Viktor’s gaze dipped to accommodate the movement, but if he had suspicions, he didn’t voice them. His hand found its way to his face, palm dragging from nose to chin as he muttered, “ _Derr_ _`_ _mo_.” Yuuri recognized it as something Yuri often said during practice when he flubbed part of his routine, along with a string of other words that sounded suspiciously like profanity.

Yuuri assessed the other as he drew in a breath, his blink lingering a moment longer than necessary in what was likely an attempt to regain equilibrium. He wanted to know what was going on inside that pretty head, wanted to know why this was so important that Viktor had looked so close to falling apart when they were in the street just over half an hour prior. Had he put Viktor at risk? Had he put _himself_ at risk?

The air was stale with a lack of life, and cold from his refusal to turn on the heat in an attempt to save money on utilities. This place was no home to him; it lost whatever little personal element it might have had months ago. Barren like his soul, offering a place of comfortless rest and reminding him all too vividly of his mistakes. Being here, when he was composed of glass, was very much like standing at the edge of a cliff. He could shatter before ever reaching the bottom, and who knew how long it would take to find all of the pieces of himself.

A drink and a line, would he ever stop yearning for it?

“ _He_ was the one who hit you,” and it was stated as a fact, not a question. He was pulled from his musings, sight coming back into focus on what appeared to be a very, _very_ upset Viktor. Jaw clenched, shoulders wound up tightly beneath the coat he hadn’t removed thanks to the chill of Yuuri’s apartment—the true target of his anger remained unannounced.

Yuuri nodded, although not without apprehension. His brows drew in confusion, honey dripping over the other’s rage-contorted visage in scrutiny. How did Viktor know that? His eyes were scorching as they graced the other, branding marks into his skin like dual iron rods left in the fire. Despite the other’s leverage, despite the fact that Yuuri could probably do little more than smash the glass in his hand over the other’s head as a deterrent and suffer through bts of broken glass in his palm, he didn’t feel threatened. He felt Viktor’s anger, yes, as it was almost suffocating with the few steps of distance between them, but it didn’t feel directed at him.

Just who was this _Leroy_? Did this have something to do with his evident distaste for Viktor? Was there a history there that Yuuri was unaware of, and that’s why he’d been trying so valiantly to pull something of ‘use’ from Yuuri’s grasp? There were too many questions left unanswered, too many details he didn’t have. He was grasping at severed tethers, trying fruitlessly to braid short strings of information. This ran much deeper than Yuuri might have thought, and he found himself wondering just how high up the ladder went.

Who was _Viktor_? And why had he been waiting for Yuuri to begin with if not to finish what the others had started?

“What did he say to you?” Viktor prodded, voice solemn, and a gloved hand ran through silken silver. He was fidgeting now—was he nervous?

“He asked me what I’d offered you in exchange for not having my head bashed in.”

Viktor’s anger only seemed to intensify, bringing bleeding vats of spring water to a healthy boil. “Yuuri, I want you to tell me your exact conversation. No missing details. Can you do that for me?”

And again, he wanted _everything_. He wanted to gather as much information as possible without bothering to explain a single thing.

Yuuri trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, watching the other hesitantly for a moment before responding, “He asked me what I did and told me it was important that he knew. I told him I didn’t know, because I don’t.” He regarded the other for another pause, honey tempting to coax an explanation with little luck, before adding, “He didn’t seem to like _you_ very much.”

Viktor snorted at that, though he hardly seemed amused. “So, you didn’t tell him about the debt, or the letter?”

“No.” Yuuri answered easily. “I’m not a _complete_ idiot. He thought I was too _doped up_ to remember.” Which had made him very, _very_ angry, he decided not to add.

“Good,” Viktor breathed, and Yuuri swore it sounded something like relief.

The silence that settled in was tense, and Yuuri took another absent gulp of his water with quaking hands. He couldn’t help but feel that this would be _much_ easier to deal with if he was intoxicated, but that was the siren singing. Ethereal and taunting, humming desire like praise and dancing with a trail of white smoke that pulled his eyes back to the refrigerator. It was fatally deceptive, a secret tune sung only to him, but the voice was beautiful and he loathed his inclination to trust it. This proximity wasn’t good for him, he knew that, but the bottle held a flame that promised to keep him warm when lately he’d felt so cold.

Though in truth there was another flame standing directly across from him. He could take a step closer, warm his hands, but he knew better than to play with fire. His hands were burnt, remember? He couldn’t image the damage that would be dealt by letting the blaze lick at his skin, or by breathing in smoke and stray embers straight from the heart. He’d been dousing it with gasoline, birthing his own personal conflagration, and the water in his hand was a pitiful excuse for protection.

Some part of him yearned to find out just how much heat his skin could take.

He needed it out of his path. He needed to escape out of the window and just let his apartment burn to ash. He needed a lake and a boat; somewhere safe and stranded to keep himself far out of reach—but he knew himself far too well, and he would pour a trail of gasoline to the center of his safe haven just to feel warm again.

“Dry again?” And Viktor’s voice brought him back to his apartment, but he was still staring at the handle to the fridge as though he could will the door open with his mind. Just who was he inviting in again?

Yuuri nodded, taking a deliberate gulp of water this time. The liquid felt like ice in his throat, burning in all the wrong ways. “How do you figure?”

He heard soft steps approaching, socks padding against hardwood. Had Viktor taken his shoes off as a courtesy or was it more like he felt he owned every room he walked into? In a way, he _had_ paid for this month of Yuuri’s rent. Was it leverage after all, or simply pity? Despite his efforts, Yuuri couldn't see what there was to be gained from it. He glanced at the other, watching him pull a chair away from the dining table to seat himself. He certainly _appeared_ comfortable enough.

“Your hands haven’t stopped shaking since you took them out of your pockets,” He pointed out, causing Yuuri to look down at the glass vibrating in his hand. The surface of the water swayed with his continued movement, fluid and accommodating. “And you’re looking at your refrigerator like a lost lover.”

He was growing rather tired of being regarded as something transparent. “Did you consider that I might be cold and hungry?”

Despite Yuuri’s dry tone, the other _laughed_. It wasn’t some malicious guffaw, just a light chuckle that meant Viktor knew better. It was infuriating. “I might have considered it, but…”

Yuuri’s irritation bloomed when the other trailed off in amusement. “But what? You know everything?”

“I know enough,” his reply was soft, still holding onto that teasing lilt, and Yuuri was about tired of being offered half-answers when he was expected to give out information like a filing cabinet. How did Viktor get off being so cryptic when Yuuri was presented like an open book for him to flip through at his leisure?

“Enlighten me, oh wise drug dealer.” He snarked, narrowed eyes looking especially dark with the halo of violet painted about them.

Viktor raised a brow, perhaps a bit put-off by the younger’s biting retort. “I’m not a drug dealer.”

Yuuri sighed in exasperation, because _of course_ that was the part Viktor had gotten hung up on. “Well, you could’ve fooled me.”

There was a pause, both parties measuring each other to see who would react first. The quiescence was stale, and Yuuri found himself only growing more irritated with each passing second that he peered into calm blue. He cursed the withdrawals for his short fuse, drawing in a deep breath and turning back to the sink to refill the near-empty glass. The handle squeaked as he turned it, water exiting the faucet in a hiss.

“Personal experience,” Viktor finally submitted, and Yuuri had to turn off the sink to hear him properly. “I said ‘personal experience’,” he supplied again, louder, when Yuuri made a grunt to signify he hadn’t heard him.

He didn’t turn. Instead, he pulled the handle again to continue filling his glass. With a deep, grounding breath, Yuuri spun to face the other, who was now leaning with his chin against the back of his clasped hands and his elbows propped on the wooden dining room table. “ _You’re_ an alcoholic?”

The word seemed to reverberate through Yuuri’s apartment, echoing and mocking him as he was forced to realize that that’s what he was: an alcoholic and an addict. The other didn’t seem to flinch, however, at Yuuri’s use of the term. “ _Was_ an alcoholic.” He corrected, which would explain why he was seemingly unfazed by the unsavory word still clinging to Yuuri’s palette. “Makes it easier to pick up on things that others might take for granted.”

“And that’s why you left the scotch, to take pity on me?”

“To help, I thought, but I guess it had the opposite effect if you were drunk enough to leave a populated area so that your attackers had an easier time hurting you.” He ran a hand through his hair, gaze softened by something all too reminiscent of guilt for Yuuri’s liking.

“Weening yourself off a little at a time worked for you, then?” Yuuri asked, and he loathed the way hope curled around his words in a tone most befitting of desperation. He _wanted_ to be told that it was okay to have a drink—he wanted to be _encouraged_  to wrap his fingers around the neck of a bottle and sate this incessant nagging of his soul by drowning it until he couldn’t hear the screams.

Viktor was reading him again, and he was sure he’d given away his intentions. Damn his unguarded voice and his overactive expressions. Where was the peer pressure now that he needed it most? “Everyone reacts differently,” he stated with care, and it was frustrating because _that wasn’t what Yuuri wanted to hear._

“Ah.” He vocalized, voice dead, and he stretched his fingers out to ease the pain of their near-constant shaking. Was it wrong of him to want someone else to blame for his mistakes, or was it simply natural? It would have been  _so easy_ to point the finger at Viktor, to say he'd been swayed by syrupy words of a Russian deity telling him it was okay to ruin his life again. No such luck.

He did his best not to entertain the thought of the other whispering praise to him like prayer as he drowned his soul in less conventional ways of taking shots.

Viktor slid out a second chair, beckoning Yuuri to sit down. If he didn't feel at home, he was rather convincing in acting the part. The man in question swallowed, hesitation evident as the rational part of him, however dwindling, weighed the harm in being close to Viktor while he still felt so vulnerable to his presence. His gaze flicked from the flame to the wood, and ironically, he felt like he was the one who might ignite. The other motioned to him again, and Yuuri's legs were moving before he had time to fully process whether or not he actually wanted to sit down. His socked feet padded against the cool floor, whisking him off to the lion’s den. Or heaven. He couldn't decide which sounded more fitting.

His glass sounded against the table as he set it down, fingers still resting against it as though it was the only thing tying him to the Earth. He sat, careful not to disturb his ribs, and shifted a bit to get comfortable.

“Everyone has _something_ , you know? Drugs, alcohol, sex, _love_.”

“And your something was alcohol?” Yuuri confirmed, eyes set firmly on the surface line of the water in his glass as it swayed slightly from right to left. Gentle and compliant, and breathtakingly lackluster. 

Viktor hesitated, which drew Yuuri’s attention after a moment. He was pensive, staring at something that wasn’t Yuuri for possibly the first time since they’d met. Yuuri traced the curve of his iris from the side, noticing for the first time that the edges were a few shades darker than that which followed. Up this close, he could clearly see the threads of emerald sewn into cerulean. Lashes composed purely of ash encapsulated those colors and kept them from bleeding out, and he couldn’t help but take note of their length.

After a moment of thought, Viktor sighed, and the other’s gaze fell to drink in the sight of plush, parted lips. How were his teeth so straight and stainless? Did everything roll out of heaven so perfectly? “Yes and no,” he offered, and Yuuri had almost forgotten what they were talking about. “Alcohol was bad for me, yes, and I had a serious drinking problem, but it didn’t seem like much compared to MDMA.”

“Molly?” He asked, and Viktor confirmed with a nod. That was certainly not what he was expecting, and his surprise was written clearly across his bruise-tainted features. “I didn’t know Molly was addictive.”

“It’s not—not in the way that nicotine or heroin might be. Closer to cocaine, which I'm sure you know.” Viktor felt far away, closed off emotionally despite being so free with his words. Distant, detached. “ _Happiness_ , that’s what’s really addictive.”

Yuuri didn’t know what to say, so he elected to stay silent. Viktor was still staring into the void, eyes unfocused and face blank with his recollections.

“Have you ever tried it? MDMA, I mean.” Viktor inquired, and suddenly he was turning his head to focus on Yuuri again. His eyes held nothing of substance; no emotion, no secrets. The dull was significant, even if their striking color remained. His confessions were being bled through his words, which was new, and surprisingly flat. It felt calculated—there was nothing raw about it, and it was... sad. 

The other faltered a moment, feeling a bit like he’d been caught staring despite the fact that Viktor didn’t appear too concerned with it. “Once in college,” he found himself answering honestly, because this version of Viktor was so distant and subdued that he wasn't even sure his words were reaching.

“So, you know then.” He continued, “How _happy_ you feel when you’re rolling.”

He sounded like a widower recalling the death of his lover.

Yuuri nodded. It had made him incredibly happy, happier than he could ever remember being, and it made him more receptive to his own feelings. He’d never felt so attuned to his own thoughts, his priorities, his goals and dreams. He could remember being wrapped in a soft blanket, alternating between the mouth guard some girl had given him so that he would stop grinding his teeth and one of the many bottles of water at the foot of Leo’s bed, and the way his hands couldn’t seem to stop rubbing the faux fur he was practically swaddled in. He could remember sitting for what felt like ages, near-about humming as he thought of all the things he’d been avoiding for weeks, and making plans on how to execute those things. He remembered when Phichit came back from a beer run and how he’d been so happy to see him that he almost cried because _oh my god, that’s my best friend._  He remembered nearly falling off of the bed in attempts to scramble and hug the newly returned, and the way that Leo and Guang-Hong had erupted into peels of gleeful laughter. He remembered laughing with them.

But he also remembered how hollow and _sad_ he felt in the days following. He hardly wanted to get out of bed at all, his appetite almost nonexistent and his anxiety amplified. He was exhausted, painfully exhausted, and he'd spent a large portion of the day immediately following his trip sleeping. In short, coming down after one of the best highs of his life had felt so disturbingly shitty that he’d vowed never to do it again.

“I was at a point where I needed that happiness, so I kept going back to it until it reached a point where I couldn’t be happy at all unless I was using.” And he sighed, fingers carding through his hair only for his palm to halt at the faint scar on his neck that Yuuri had never noticed before.

So, he wasn't perfect. He wasn't carved from heaven-born marble and animated by the grace of divinity. He was flesh and blood, operating with the same set of base elements as everyone else. Yuuri wanted more than ever to test that theory, to skim his fingers along  _skin_ and to feel the soft give of something unmistakably  _human_ because Viktor wasn't a deity. He was just a person with a few ghosts of his own lurking in the halls of his mind. The pedestal was crumbling at its base.

Viktor was human.

“Why’d you stop?” Yuuri asked, genuine curiosity running away with his voice.

Viktor smiled, although softly. Yuuri followed the soft tug of his lips, tracing it with his eyes rather than with his touch. “Reduced cognitive function doesn’t bode well in my line of work, no matter how painful it was for me to come to that conclusion.” He laughed, dry and bitter. His head fell into his hands, liquid mercury pouring over his knuckles as he did so. “And _believe me,_ it was _painful_. It took me months just to feel like a person again. You know, serotonin and all that.”

He couldn't imagine what it might have felt like to come down from prolonged use of the drug he'd sworn off after his own poor one-off. He couldn't imagine what it was like to feel that way for months at a time, and how damaging it must have been to have to continue functioning as if nothing was amiss. To think that all that time Viktor was chasing happiness, and all he'd found was an indefinite melancholy. It felt resoundingly familiar.

Yuuri hummed, propping his chin up on a hand. His hand had released the glass of water some time ago. “ _Happiness_?” His voice was hardly audible, mostly speaking to himself. “I wanted to be _liked_.”

Viktor pulled his head up, regarding the other through the curtain of his bangs.

“I, uh, was pretty quiet— _am_ pretty quiet.” He started, and his voice shook a bit with his admission. “People at college, the ones who didn’t know me very well, would always say things about liking me better when I was drunk, because that was the only time I would actually talk to them. I liked talking to them too, it was just hard for me.”

He wasn’t sure if he expected Viktor to laugh and tell him he was an idiot for letting comments like those get to him, but he was a bit surprised when the other straightened completely in his chair to listen to him. This wasn’t information that Viktor needed, this wasn’t knowledge that would benefit him, and yet he still sat here listening, lapping up every word. Perhaps his own insecurities were at play in his thoughts of receiving backlash.

“I guess I started to drink a lot, and then it was every day, and then it was multiple times every day. People would offer me things at parties and clubs, and I would be drunk enough not to care what it was. Until I got to coke, that is. I guess I ended up liking that one more than I was meant to.” Despite himself, he laughed. It wasn’t funny, he knew that, but something about the fact that he was confiding in a relative stranger about his burning desire to be _liked_ fueling his alcoholism was comical.

"That's a valid desire," Viktor assured, and Yuuri believed him.

They shared a moment of peace, each party taking a breath to reflect. Yuuri knew he should have kicked Viktor out long ago, as soon as he’d told him everything he needed to know about why his face was a car crash. Actually, he shouldn’t have brought Viktor back to his apartment at all, if he were to be completely truthful. Even still, sitting here now with souls bared and with the weight of finally,  _finally_ confiding in someone off of his chest, he couldn't bring himself to feel regret. 

“Why did you lie?”

Viktor looked up from where he’d been scrutinizing Yuuri’s free arm gripping his ribs, appearing caught off-guard by Yuuri’s sudden question. “Hm?”

“Leroy said I gave you money, but we both know that I didn’t.” He explained, eyes watching the fingers of his own hand move to trace lines into the perspiration on the glass as he picked his head from his palm. “It doesn’t seem like you gained anything from it. So, why lie?”

“I very well couldn’t tell them I pardoned you. That would be considered stealing.” His voice held something of a tease, as though he thought it to be amusing. Yuuri wasn’t laughing, however. He wanted to know; he'd wanted to know since the first night.

“Then why pardon me at all?” He urged, voice small and yet it seemed to resonate. His fingers encircled the glass, pulling it to his lips to take a drink.

“I'm beginning to think you _wanted_ me to hit you.” And again he was purring, mischief curling around his words as he broke into a smirk. “I’ll gladly bend you over my knee, if that’s what you’d prefer.”

He liked to have choked on the sip of water half-way in its travels down his throat, eyes widening in surprise at the forward comment. He covered his mouth with his hand to keep from spitting liquid onto the table, heat blooming beneath the flesh of his face. He swallowed, being that he had almost forgotten that necessary aspect of the drinking process, and cleared his throat. “Be serious,” he chided, willing away the suddenly _very_ vivid mental images flipping through his mind of being bent over the table.

Viktor sighed, shaking his head. His bangs shifted back into place, unsheathed turquoise presenting itself with something not short of entrancing. Yuuri found himself caught up in a wave of longing, this particular brand of wistfulness capturing him even as he heard the rustling of gloves being pulled from flesh. He decided he liked it, the yearning he saw, and molasses did its best to ensnare that emotion. 

Yuuri faintly recognized the silhouette of Viktor’s hands raising in his peripheral vision, feeling rather than seeing lithe fingers skim his ears to grip the temples of his glasses. The sight of dripping sapphires came to blur, Yuuri’s breath dying in his lungs as he heard the scraped-up frames of his eye wear grace the table and a content sigh escape Viktor’s lips.

“It’s because of these.” He breathed, and Yuuri heard him shift closer. The pads of Viktor's thumbs rested beneath his eyes, lightly skimming where he was bruised, while the palms of his hands cradled his cheeks entirely too lightly. Yuuri felt his heart skip, his flesh igniting with even the faintest touch. He leaned in without breath of a second thought, dark lashes fluttering as he blinked. “They remind me of someone.”

“Who?” Yuuri managed to exhale, voice passing along his breath in nothing more than a fruit fly whisper. It lived and died in the same day, leaving just as quickly as it came.

Viktor’s thumbs made another pass over the sensitive skin beneath his eyes, and he found himself wishing he’d worn contacts. He wanted to see Viktor’s expression more clearly, wanted to analyze every word woven into the threads of his eyes, wanted to see the light crinkle in his brow. He wanted to see Viktor’s restraint in the same brazen way he felt it, and he wanted to see how much it was killing him.

“I never got a name.” He murmured, that same something wistful and longing that had been in his gaze before now lining his voice and spinning tales of age-old pining. “But I thought…”

He stopped completely, removing his hands from the other’s face despite the way Yuuri subconsciously followed them. “I don’t know what I thought.” Viktor muttered.

And the moment died, taking the vignette along with it. They were back in Yuuri's cold, dust-laden apartment, the drug dealer and the addict returning from a plane where they were both simply _human_. But things were not so simple, and it would be foolish to think that they were.

“Oh.” Yuuri muttered quite lamely, not really knowing what else to say at that point. He grabbed for his glasses, slipping them back on so that he could see properly. “I should be going. There’s someone waiting on me.”

“At this time of night?” Viktor asked, a bit miffed. When Yuuri simply nodded, he sighed and stood up.

Yuuri mimicked the motion, taking his glass to the sink to pour the remaining water out before he made any attempt to leave the apartment. Viktor waited and followed him out, each offering an unsatisfactory goodbye before they parted ways.

It was over, wasn't it?

 

**To: Phich**

_Hey, omw._

 

* * *

The door to his apartment clicked shut, his head falling against it not even a moment following. He heard whining, followed by the ‘ _cl_ _ick_ ’ of toenails against hardwood and a nose prodding against his thigh. He sighed, mustering something of a smile before he stooped to rub through thick curls. Makkachin wagged his tail happily, offering a tongue to his human’s face in greeting.

“Hey, Makkachin,” He hummed, finding solace in his pup’s eager affection. At least someone was always happy to see him.

After a moment at peace with the poodle in his presence, he rose to his full height. He slipped his personal phone from his pocket, selecting Chris’s contact to shoot him an answer to their earlier conversation. After some debate, he decided to be concise.

 

**To: Chris**

_It’s not about me, is it?_

 

And it wasn’t—isn’t. Like it or not, his choice to pardon Yuuri had only stirred up more drama, and they were both disturbingly lucky that it hadn’t escalated further.

His concerns, had it not been _Yuuri_ to be the one suffering the consequences of 'eluding' punishment, _would_ have been entirely different— _should_ have been entirely different. Chasing someone out in the street like that and getting violent put their entire operation at risk. They could have all gone down in flames if someone happened to see, or if police happened to be patrolling in that area at the wrong time. Jean-Jacques was a loose cannon, not to mention a nuisance to Viktor ever since his transfer to America.

Viktor might have _admired_ JJ’s tenacity if he hadn’t committed the cardinal sin of disturbing Viktor’s latest object of awe. As much as he wanted to deliver divine justice, and _believe him_ , it had taken every shred of his self-control not to march directly to JJ's home and beat him within an inch of his life as soon as ' _Leroy_ ' fell from Yuuri's mouth, he wasn't supposed to know anything further than the fact that Katsuki Yuuri had given him the money, and was therefor taken care of. But things were  _far_ from over.

All of Viktor's retaliation had to be methodical now. It was war as far as he was concerned, and he would leap at any chance he was given to knock JJ down a peg, or preferably have him demoted and transferred to yet another country as a distributor, possibly even a dealer if the situation called for it.

 

**From: Chris**

_Dabbling in revelations on this fine evening?_

 

In truth, JJ had been trying to stir the pot with Viktor since he first heard word of his first demotion. He hadn’t taken too kindly to being removed from his place presiding over business in Canada, and had somehow decided that _Viktor_ was at fault for his own foolishness. He’d gotten involved with a woman, Isabella, and became distracted. He let things get far too out of hand and suffered the consequences for it. None of those his mistakes had anything to do at all with Viktor, so his anger was sorely misguided. 

But that man felt like the world was indebted to him. He leapt at any and everything that could possibly tarnish Viktor’s flawless record because he failed in Canada and now felt like he was entitled to a second chance in the United States. He’d even gone so far as to declare nepotism, which had raised more than a few brows considering _that_ claim was what it took for him to realize that Viktor and Yakov were not _actually_ related. Now though, he’d found Yuuri, and luckily that turned up to be a dead lead. Things could have ended in blood and death—far worse than a punch in the face and some apparent pain in the ribs.

After all, JJ was the one who’d gone to Viktor screaming and crying about this _Katsuki Yuuri_ one of the Detroit dealers was making such a fuss over. JJ was supposed to be presiding over Detroit, so Viktor had explicitly ordered _JJ_ to fix it. What part of that was unreasonable was beyond his comprehension. Viktor had other things to deal with. He was apparently unsatisfied with Viktor’s answer, and had decided to go over his head with it to Yakov.

That was one phone call he’d rather not re-live, but it was also the phone call that lead him to Yuuri's apartment a few days following. So,  _thank you_ and  _fuck you, JJ._

 

**To: Chris**

_Don’t be too smug.  
_ _You might be reassigned soon._

 

**From: Chris**

_Oh?  
_ _But you know how I love Chicago_  
_Trouble in paradise?_

**To: Chris**

_A thorn the size of a maple leaf in my side_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AA and NA = Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous, which are meetings designed to help recovering addicts deal with being sober and are generally centered around Christian principles  
> Derr`mo = Shit.  
> On MDMA: "Molly" is supposed to be a pure cut form of MDMA (but rarely is), whereas Ecstasy is more widely known for being cut with methamphetamine, ketamine, caffeine, etc. When taken, MDMA uses up a large amount of serotonin (the chemical that regulates anxiety, happiness, and mood) and that's why people crash so hard when they come down. It can take weeks or months after prolonged use for serotonin levels in the brain to stabilize. People with past anxiety and depression issues can be more susceptible to adverse effects.  
> Rolling = slang for being on MDMA
> 
> What's this? Is this fluff? A tender moment in the firestorm? 
> 
> You'd be surprised how much you can find in a Google search, my friends. Try your full name and your city if you're curious. Some sites will make you pay but a looot of stuff is public record.
> 
> God bless Chris. He's the only one keeping me sane in all of this. My girlfriend described him as "the wise promiscuous friend". Also, Viktor with a touch of arrogance, anyone? I had too much fun writing from Viktor's perspective, evidently. He's a tad self-centered because he's love depraved. Someone help him. And then you have JJ suffering from his masculinity being threatened, which honestly, could be the worst version of JJ to ever see the light of day.
> 
> Me: keeps Yuuri and Viktor five feet apart at all times because they can't be trusted not to have their hands all over each other  
> Yuuri and Viktor: start eye-fucking from across the room  
> Me: Jesu s Christ, you heathens
> 
> Methinks this fic just might earn an explicit rating after all, god willing. Be warned though, I've never attempted to write smut. I get just past the foreplay and then I have to essentially close my laptop and walk around my room for a while contemplating life and existence. Death and gore? Not a problem. Passionate love-making? I short-circuit. Here's to pushing me out of my comfort zone sometime in the future??

**Author's Note:**

> Chert voz'mi = an exclamation like "fucking hell", "For heaven's sakes", etc.
> 
> Let me know whether to continue this mess or just write it for my own personal satisfaction that it exists. 
> 
> If you have any questions about exactly why Yuuri's thought process is so incredible jumbled and it seems like he's contradicting himself at points, I'll be happy to answer them. I can assure that every sentence of this fic has been methodically picked out to convey something in particular.
> 
> Thanks for giving this a chance! I'm not sure this is going to go over well because of the subject matter, but I'm a little excited to be writing something risque that's not death.


End file.
